


With Your Ghost

by PrintDust



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrintDust/pseuds/PrintDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows that there is nothing to come of it except for her own death as she put her life in danger each time she makes the journey. Somehow the thought that this time might be her last comes as a comfort to her; that it will be over soon: the numbness, the longing, the silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her cramping limbs tug her from her sleep and she opens her eyes, sinking her teeth into her lower lip to bite back a moan. She works her legs out of their curled position, furrowing her brow as her calf muscles tighten into rocks beneath her skin. Cursing under her breath, she grabs for the bar above her bed and pulls herself up from her filthy mattress, its fabric cover soiled and stinking of body odour.

Her left arm has also gone numb in her sleep, and she rolls her neck, giving the limb a shake to restore its blood-flow. The cool temperature of the concrete on her bare feet is a relief in her stifling cell, and she pads around the tiny room, stretching out her legs.

"You awake, girl?" the man's voice startles her and she takes a step back to the back wall, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise. The shadow moves, almost shapelessly in the dim light, to rest against the door. Bulky forearms slip through the horizontal bars to rest heavily on the vertical ones, and she catches the smell of tobacco and smoke before her eyes adjust to see the glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand. "Well?" he asks, the luminous red dot rising up where she hears him take a drag from it. When he breathes in the tip of the cigarette brightens, illuminating the shape of his beard and the tip of his nose, lighting afire the swastika tattooed on his cheek.

She shakes her head, finding the wall with her fingertips before settling back against it, her left shoulder blade resting against the exposed toilet plumbing. She shivers, but not in fear. She isn't sure when it had happened, but she has grown numb to the emotions that had once battled through her, and had found herself in a place of complacency. It hurts less to feign indifference than it does to fight.

The forearms disappear into the darkness and she breathes out, relaxing her tensed muscles. Her relief is short-lived, however, and her ears prickle at the sound of keys jingling against each other.

Closing her eyes, she sucks in as deep a breath as she can, inflating her lungs until they feel like they'll burst. When she opens her eyes again he is standing in front of her, almost toe to toe, his large chest heaving with excitement. The darkness continues to conceal his facial features, but does nothing to hide the smell of urine and sweat that clings to his soiled clothing. Turning her face away, she lowers her chin and settles her eyes on the bed to her left.

"I know what you want," he breathes, leaning in until his nose almost touches the smooth skin of her neck where it dips into her collar bone. Shuddering, she squeezes her eyes closed and holds her breath, keeping as still as possible. Bracing her hands against the wall behind her, she wishes that she could melt into the concrete.

Short bristles of hair, coarse like a Brillo Pad, scrape against her sensitive skin as he presses a kiss to the hollow of her throat, scratching her; wearing her away. Tears blur her eyes, but she swallows them back with a throat that had become dry from dehydration – she is sure she would scream if she could remember how to. It seems as though her body has forgotten how to speak, her voicebox weak from disuse, a jewel at her throat that has tarnished with time.

His hand drifts over her body, tracing the concave valley of her stomach, then over the rise of her ribcage, then her breasts. He sucks in a breath when his fingers join his mouth at her throat. He traces his calloused thumb over the ridge of her jaw line, and then follows it with his tongue. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, her chest begins to shudder and burn from lack of oxygen, her lungs constricting desperately, painfully. He pushes her back into the wall, his hard groin pressing into her thigh, and she turns her face away to suck in a trembling breath.

"God, you're like a statue," he chuckles softly, guiding her along the wall towards the bed, skirting the room, dragging her over the exposed metal pipes and cinderblocks. "Let's loosen you up a bit, huh, love?"

XXXX

She gasps, bolting from sleep with a rush of fear. Sitting upright she searches the room, a single drop of cold sweat sliding down her shoulder blades, south until it reaches the top of her pants and soaks into their denim waistband. Reaching into the dark around her, she flicks on the battery-powered lantern, illuminating the cramped living-room of the small home that she has been staying in.

Slowly, she twists her body and drops her feet to the floor, embracing the feeling of the soft carpet against her soles, pushing up into her arches. She looks at the picture on the mantle, an older couple surrounded by three young girls – likely their grandchildren. Using the sofa arm, she gets easily to her feet and crosses the room to lift the picture frame and inspect it closer. The youngest girl catches her eye and she traces the floral pattern of a Shirley Temple style dress and the brown Mary Jane's clasped on tiny feet. The little girl sits comfortably on the hip of her older sister, her face turned away from the sun, her shoulder length brown hair cut neatly and partly held back by a ribbon. She squints at the pixie-like grin and the pearly baby teeth, and she feels the corners of her own mouth begin to twitch into the beginning of a smile. Stiffening, she put the photo back down, then hesitates before turning it onto its face.

She steps back toward the sofa and looked around the room again, crossing her arms over her middle.

Outside, she can hear birds chirping, and she knows that the sun will be up soon. Moving quickly, she picks up her bag and begins collecting her things, taking a moment to shove a handful of almonds in her mouth. She leaves a granola bar on the table to eat on the go, and rolls her sleeping bag before slipping it into its waterproof bag.

The street is clear when she steps outside onto the overgrown path, the area has been vacant for some time. She knows it is foolish to move on from a place that seems to be relatively safe, but she has grown restless. She doesn't like staying in one place too long – she doesn't want to feel confined.

Her car reeks heavily of gasoline, so she rolls down the window first to get some fresh air moving through the vehicle. Checking the gauge she finds that she has over a half-tank left and she thanks the hybrid-gods for awesome gas mileage. She hasn't had to touch the two jerry cans in the trunk – a relief considering how difficult the commodity has become to find.

Pressing on the accelerator, she steers the car away from the curb, avoiding and overturned mini-van in the middle of the road. Once she finds herself in less precarious driving conditions, she drops her other hand to rest on the leather sheath that covers the blade of the machete resting on her lap. Luckily for her the Walkers in the area migrate solo for the most part and she is grateful that she hasn't come across any hordes. She has become fairly confident in her ability to put down the Walkers that she's come across, sometimes even two or three at a time, but she knows the destruction that they can do when they collect together into large masses.

She drives as long as she can stand to, leaving behind the small town where she'd stayed for weeks while she'd healed physically. The quaint rows of single houses give way quickly to larger lots and then farms that seem familiar yet completely anonymous with their large stretches of barren land, overgrown with ragweed and grass that looks like it will exceed the height of her hip if she finds herself standing amongst it.

Farm after farm whisk past her window until she finds one that catches her interest. It is less intact than most of the others, but the large barn calls her name with its sloped, sagging roof and wearied planked walls with gaps large enough to slide her fingers through them. Guiding her vehicle onto the property she follows the rutted path to the barn then stopped just before it. Leaving the engine running she steps outside and inspects the barn's large doors for a moment before approaching them. Iron handles the size of her forearms are screwed in place at her eye-level and she uses them to pull the groaning doors open, their stiff hinges protesting her efforts. The car fits neatly between the stalls, snugly enough that she has to squeeze out from behind the wheel. It is tight, but it provides her coverage so she won't draw the attention of any unwanted passersby, living or otherwise.

The gaps between the boarded walls let in enough light that she is able to set up her sleeping bag in the hayloft. She decides not to light the lantern - in case its dim fiery glow is visible from the road – so when the last of the sun's fat rays fade into the moons softer glow, she turns in for what will hopefully be a nightmare free sleep.

She dreams of a toddler who wears the face of the little girl in the photo back in the small house. She knows the image is wrong, but she explores it anyway, tracing her hands over pudgy baby arms and small hands that tangle up in her own hair. She has taken to wearing it short enough that its uneven ends, sawed off with the blade of her pocketknife, barely touch her shoulders. In her dream it is long though, a brown curtain that drapes over her shoulders and across her eyes each time the wind picks it up. The toddler in her arms morphs into a little boy who settled his cheek against her collarbone, his button nose sprinkled with fine freckles.

When she wakes her arms are asleep from being crossed over her chest for god only knows how long. She stretches them out, wincing at the aching, tingly sensation as blood returns to her limbs. Sitting up she rolls her neck and looked around the barn for anything that will be useful to take with her. She spots a couple of rusty shears and a pitchfork, abandoned against the back wall of one of the stalls. In the same carrel are the skeletal remains of a horse with a long thick rope of bones that made up its neck and spinal cord.

She climbs down the ladder and heads into the stall, collecting the tools from the wall. She pauses as something crunches underfoot and she bends down to retrieve the rib bone that has caught up under her boot, mostly concealed in brittle straws of hay. She turns the off-white bone over in her palm, inspecting one toothy end before depositing it into her back pocket.

XXXX

She circles back on the highway again, following the familiar roads that she has travelled over and over again, a record stuck in a groove, replaying the same lines. She knows that there is nothing to come of it except for her own death as she put her life in danger each time she makes the journey.

Somehow the thought that this time might be her last comes as a comfort to her; that it will be over soon: the numbness, the longing, the silence. She won't have to see the ravaged remains of those not fast enough littering the streets anymore, or the hordes of heaving, stumbling faces rotting away, mindlessly searching for something to satisfy their never abating need to consume.

The road ducks into the woods, trees lining its shoulders, thick and bursting with summer fresh evergreen. She stops about a mile from the path that she knows leads over the tracks, down the small slope to the wooden footbridge. She follows the route, her weapon unsheathed and gripped in her right hand while the other holds the straps of her bag to her shoulder. Stopping at the edge of the chain-link fence, her toes pressed against the property and she trails her eyes over the familiar scene: a crouched set of buildings, stooped low in the distance, crumbling. Part of the fence to her right has been torn away, opening the space up to the figures who shamble around the yard, stumbling through wreckage of twisted wire and broken concrete.

It is a short walk around the edge of the yard to the steel doors that are partially covered by broken tree branches and waist high grass. As far away from the main building as she can get without leaving the property, she bends down and grasps the rusted handles of a thick metal door. Heaving them back, she pulls them open and a grunt, revealing a set of stairs and descend into darkness beneath the surface of the earth. The long corridor smells damp as she walk through her, her face lowered to rest her chin against the surface of her chest.

She arrives at the only inset of the wall after several yards of tunnel and searches in the dark until her fingers brushed the thin rope that is draped over a ledge. She picks up the plastic flashlight and turns it on, lighting the space around her. She takes a quick breath and pushes her way into the emergency shelter, her feet confident as she crosses the solid floor. She followed the room as it narrows into a small hallway with cells punctuating its right-side wall, and stops in front of the last one, listening to the sound of grunting and growling as she watched the shadowy figure stumble around in the dark.

Lighting a cigarette, she breathes in the toasty smoke and let it fill her lungs. Technically, she hasn't smoked since high school, but she has picked up the habit again, unsure of why she ever denied herself the comfort for so long. She leans back against the wall, her arms crossed over as she waits to be noticed, her thumb flicking the filtering end of the cigarette. It doesn't take too long for thick arms to lash out at her from between the bars, appearing suddenly with mottled black skin, tearing away from the bone where it rubs against the metal. She takes another drag from her cigarette and holds it between her lips while she turns her machete over in her hand. Approaching the cell she stares into the darkness, locating the swastika that has begun to fade into the same rotting colour of the rest of the flesh surrounding it.

She digs into her pocket and pulls out her souvenir from the barn, the one end of the bone now sharpened into a spike. The pot of his belly gives way to the makeshift weapon and she releases it, leaving it protruding from him with a satisfied grunt. She slices off his hand next that is just a palm and a thumb; she took the rest of his fingers earlier on. His chest is a ravaged mess of sliced and stabbed flesh that is rancid as she inspects it.

Her attack does nothing to deter him as he continues to reach for her with one hand and his stump. Scoffing, she turns her back on him to leave.

XXXX

She barely understands the concept of night and day now – it has been so long since she has been allowed outside to see the sun, the moon, or anything except the grey concrete walls of her cell. When something rocks the ground she can barely respond, her body aching too much for her to move. Her neck is sore from his hands gripping it, squeezing until she was sure he would break it like a pheasants, killing her.

He curses from the other room and she hears furniture scraping. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she gets to her feet, one hand closing over her stomach, the other bunching into the fabric of her nightgown.

She hears the outer door slam and flinches at the sound and then the silence that follows. If he doesn't come back she will starve to death… she wonders if he would ever be so compassionate as to allow her that fate.

When he returns later he is in a frenzy, she can hear him knocking things over, searching frantically. He comes to her door, his chest heaving, his wife-beater askew, showing off half his chest. She steps back when he opens the cell door, clenching her fists in fear – unsure of what to expect from him.

"We're goin'," he tells her, reaching to grasp her forearm. She doesn't resist him as he pulls her out into the hall and towards the other room that she has only seen a few times before. It is large compared to her cell, almost overwhelmingly so, and she isn't sure she wants to know what it will feel like to be outside in the open. Shaking her head she pulls back, easily yanking her arm from his grip.

"Y'dumb bitch," he reaches for her again and she falls back, shaking her head, her back colliding with the wall behind her. She slides down its smooth surface, pulling her knees to her chest protectively. Reaching frantically around her she feels something slim and snatches it up. Taking a swing at him she doesn't even realize she has picked up a pen until it is lodged into the thick fold of his neck. His eyes widen with shock and he falls backwards onto his ass, his hands flying to his throat that doesn't start bleeding until he wrenches the pen free.

Long streams of blood jet from the wound and he covers it with both hands, sputtering at her in shock. Closing her eyes, she rests her forehead on her knees and doesn't look up again until he has gone silent.

Fear grips her first, if he is dead then she is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes her days before she builds up the courage to leave the tiny office. She has no shoes or pants and her stomach is cramping with intense hunger that has her partly doubled over. She doesn't intend to go far, and when she steps out into an inky black hallway, her reservations almost force her back into where she has come from. She can hear nothing in the space around her, and her hands are shaking as she fumbles with the flashlight that she had confiscated from his pocket. Dragging her teeth over her lower lip, she peers in both directions, her eyes straining to pick out any movement in the dark.

There are aluminum emergency signs screwed to the walls on her right side, and she can see china-cap light fixtures that hang from the ceiling, most of their bulbs broken or missing. The glass from the bulbs sting her feet, slicing her skin as she walks through the dark, her chin low and pressed to her chest.

She remembers there was another man at the beginning. The memory is a vague, hazy silent film that feels aged and over-exposed as she retrieves it. A Native American with dark brown glossy hair that had flicked over his shoulders as he'd leaned over her, his face angular, his teeth pearled and worn smooth as he'd spoken to her. There is an argument that she knows is happening but cannot hear or see as her too-heavy eyes drift closed long enough for it to climax with a low thwack and then a thud as he lands on the floor beside her, his eyes fixed straight ahead, glassy coals, void of life. His head is bleeding heavily and his is unmoving as she falters and slips completely into darkness.

The next time she had woken she'd been in the cell.

The hall took her to a set of concrete stairs that are so narrow that her shoulders brush the walls on either side of her. They open to what appears to be a storm drain that is rusted and flaky with rust as she grips it and pushes it out of place, opening it into a much larger space. She hesitates, her hands splayed on the cement before she builds enough nerve to push herself out into the room, her eyes falling over the collapsed outer wall where something large has struck it, disintegrating the glass and window frames that she remembered being there.

The debris from the building facade is scattered across the floor, and the loss of support has caused the other far wall to collapse too, creating the illusion of a war zone. She backpedals as she realizes how exposed the space is, and crawls back into the darkness below. 

XXXX

A horde drives her East and she follows the highway as far as she can until she is stopped by a tangled mess of traffic that seems to go on for miles. Swinging the car around, she feels a vague sense of panic that she is walled in as cars stretch out in all directions, bottle-necking her, forcing her into a corner. The feeling begins as a slight nagging that quickly escalates until she is slamming on the break and clawing at the door handle of the car. She vaults from the vehicle, chest heaving and otherwise paralyzed, staring at the tiny confines of the driver's seat.

It takes her hours of sitting cross-legged on the hood before she decides that she will not get back into the vehicle. She packs her backpack and leaves her keys and a note about the gas tanks on the dash. Turning to the woods, she slips into the tree-line and follows it, her fingers scraping over the course jackets of bark that cover the trunks of thick trees. As she delves deeper into the woods, they become denser, thick with foliage and moss that is slippery underfoot.

By the time she arrives in a small clearing her hair is pasted to her forehead and neck with sweat and she is panting in the humid air that sits heavily on her chest. It is a small camp site that looks abandoned except for the leather boots that are drying next to a two-person pup tent. She moves cautiously around the perimeter of the site, holding her breath, wincing each time the brittle branches that litter the forest floor snap underneath her. She eyes the tent door with its heavy green canvas that is stiff and pinned down by a pair of stocking-covered feet. The socks are relatively clean and dry, so she assumes that the person is either alive or very dead, certainly not the kind of dead that will attack, though that does little to ease her apprehension. Whether rotting and craving flesh or not, people can be dangerous: she knows this well.

"You gonna rob me?" a voice asks, distinctly female, though with a lower register.

She takes a step back, sliding the machete that she has secured around her wrist out of its leather cover. The feet shift, and she considers running, but she finds herself rooted to the spot. It has been a long time since she has seen another person – a living one, at least.

When the woman pulls herself out of the short tent, she uncurls almost comically, like a contortionist clown emerging from a tiny car. The woman is dark brown with skin that is smooth, her hair twisted into dreads that fall past her shoulders as she settled onto toned calves that are shapely even underneath the fabric of her cargo pants. "Well? You gonna say something?"

Pursing her lips, she inspects the woman's curled fingers, fisted at her sides, and the determined tilt of her head. The person before her is strong, powerful, and she feels old fears begin to claw their way through her as her own fingers tighten on the weapon in her hand. Shaking her head, she retreats backwards, her feet blindly finding the uneven ground behind her. Straight-faced, the woman watches her for a moment before ebony eyes, like marbles, flick over the length of her, then soften as she loosens her stance, visibly softening her form.

"Come on over here," the woman crouches down beside the boots and begins pulling them on. She moves easily, her fingers flying over the laces as she tightens them up her shins and secures them. "I'm not gonna hurt you," she opens her palms to reveal empty hands.

She hesitates before she carefully approaches the tent again, skirting the edge of the campsite before she too lowers herself to the ground, her knees settling into the soil beneath her.

"I've seen wild rabbits less skittish," the black woman reaches into the tent and retrieves a bottle of water. She seemed to weigh her options for a moment before she tossed the bottle and let it roll the rest of the way. "It's Michonne… you got a name?"

Licking her lips, she eyes the bottle carefully then leaves it where it is, sitting in a dip in the ground, covered in a thin layer of dirt. Shaking her head, she lowers it, her throat buzzing as she works words over in her mouth like putty that has dried out and keeps cracking, unusable. Shaking her head one last time, she lowers her chin, her arms sliding around her willowy frame.

Michonne's eyes narrow but she doesn't press. "You alone out here?"

Moistening her lips she builds the courage to raise her eyes, but is careful to keep her expression neutral, twisting the handle of her weapon in her hand.

Chest heaving with a sigh, or maybe an incredulous laugh that doesn't quite come to fruition, Michonne's full lips part for a moment, the close again as she offers a tight nod. "You don't have to talk, sometimes I don't feel much like it either anymore. But you let me know if you're going or staying because we're gonna have to lay down some ground rules."

At the woman's invitation she feels her heart begin to pick up speed and her gut reaction is to get to her feet and get as far away from the little campsite as possible. Her eyes flick to the woods around them, the canopy of trees overhead that filter the sun into tiny splashes that dance on Michonne's bare shoulders. The woman is a statue, perfectly still as she waits for an answer, her chest rising and falling with long even breaths.

Reaching out, she retrieves the bottle by its clear cap and breaks the seal, wincing as the sound seems to explode in the silence around them. She tilts her head back to drink, long gulps of cool water that soothes her scorching throat and washes away the tension of bottled up words.

Michonne moves back to sit on the ground, the motion controlled and deliberate. She settles with her elbows propped up on her knees and her hands clasped in the empty space between her thighs. Her observation is obvious as she shares her attention between the surrounding woods and her bag. "So you don't have a name," she mutters after a long time, pulling a utility knife from her pack. "You opposed to me giving you one then?"

The water bottle, now empty in her hand is a perfect place to focus her attention as she ignores the question. She hasn't been called anything that she approves of for a long time, so she doesn't care one way or another. The droplets of water that remain in the bottle cling to its sides, rolling with the convex shape of the plastic when she turns it over in her hands.

"How about… Jane,' Michonne suggests, halving an apple.

Jane. She turns the word over in her mind, staring at the chalky straw coloured flesh and the small brown seeds nestled into its core. Dropping her eyes, to the ground, she let them flutter closed, blocking out the sound of Michonne's teeth sinking into the apple, the snap of the peel as it breaks cleanly along her bottom teeth.

Pushing herself to her feet, she stalks to the edge of the camp and crosses her arms over her stomach, feeling ill at the thought of being anything but the nobody she had adopted. Being nobody had become less complicated than being somebody ever had been. Nobody meant no attachments, so hurt, no loss. Nobody meant that she didn't have to remember anything at all. But Jane could be fresh. It could mean starting again. The sound of it is appealing, and she nods, her back still turned to the camp, into the past where she knows she cannot have what used to be – not anymore.

Michonne grunts over her shoulder and doesn't say anything more as she rustles fabric and starts to move around the camp. Jane keeps her back carefully placed to the woman as she takes shallow, but even breaths and resolves herself to letting go.

The sound of a quick snap and burnt sulphur has her turning around to see Michonne lighting a fire, a small low burning one that is contained by a ring of uneven stones.

"We boil water and cook during the day only; fire attracts them at night," Michonne mutters, collecting an empty bladder. Jane is startled when the other woman tosses it to her, and she fumbles with hands that are already occupied by her machete, but she gets hold of it before it hits the ground. "Creeks down that way. Keep an eye out for Walkers, they get stuck in the mud down there. You look tight though, like you can handle your own."

Jane feels her eyes narrow at the woman's choice of word to describe the dead. Walkers. Swallowing, her throat is raw and parched despite the water she had just had. A thousand questions burn within her, but unable to ask them she drops her head in defeat and sets out to where she can hear water trickling. Tamping down the buzzing feeling in her stomach, she treks through the woods, down an unsteady incline, the bladder tucked under her arm. Michonne is alone, that much is clear. Alone, just like her. Everything else doesn't matter. Everything else is hope, burning its last ember, too far gone to be saved.

XXXX

The first time she wakes, she is on her back, her arms like leaden wood at her side. The room is cast in darkness, lit only by the soft glow of a lantern, burning somewhere to her right. It reeks of petroleum, the small room filled with fumes that make her head spin and ache. There is someone standing over her and she feels tearing, like fabric, but there is only the sound of his heavy breaths. She peers up at him in the low light and can see that he is a thick man, his hair pulled back into a ponytail that sits at the base of his skull. His massive chest rises and falls evenly as he works. She traces his arms down with her eyes, over thick, hairy forearms to wrists that are painted black. Her eyes settle on his hands that are have covered as they dig inside her.

She is an open cavity, splayed open, her skin peeled back, and he grunts – he is taking something out. 

XXXX

The night air is hot as she bolts awake, dragging it into her lungs in hungry gulps that make her chest ache as though too full, or too empty maybe. She is burning up and she claws at the sheet that is covering her, pushing her down, strangling her. Crawling back from it, her back connects with the canvas side of what she recognizes as the tent, that has closed itself around her, imprisoning her.

Something touches her arm and her eyes flip to a shadow, moving towards her. Lashing out, her nails sink into a fleshy cheek, dragging over skin until it is torn and bleeding beneath her fingernails, using it as traction so that she can push herself forward and out into the night air. It is black outside, the moon blocked by the cage of trees that block her way – she can't get out. There is no way out.

Sliding to her knees she collapses in fear that is so numb that it is barely an emotion at all, just a reaction – void of logic or control. It tightens her into a tightly wound ball of flesh and bone that cannot function, even when hands settle on her biceps from behind, gentle but firm.

"Shhh," a low voice soothes as thumbs begin to stroke her skin, even, rhythmic. "They'll hear you."


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning comes slowly, filled with long shadows that creep over the ground and up the side of the tent, almost as though the trees are stretching as they wake. Jane sits beside the ashy fire pit, having not been able to return to sleep after her nightmares. She glances at the tent door where Michonne is still resting and lets out a long sigh, eager to be up and doing something. She is hungry, but feels out of place and unsure, as though she is in someone else's home.

When the other woman finally rises she greets Jane with a simple nod and begins moving about the camp, her attention shared between the surrounding woods and her task. Silently, she tosses Jane the water bladder again and begins to set up the fire.

They eat cereal with canned milk that tastes like sweet chalk, crouched next to a flame that barely licks the tops of the branches piled carefully inside the stone ring. Michonne tells her that they will bathe before they set out. Surprised, Jane looks up at the other woman – she'd assumed that they would be staying longer, if not permanently.

"They'll start making their way in off the highway," she explains, pushing herself to her feet as she tosses the empty cereal box and milk tin into the fire, kicking up powdery ash. "More to eat in here than out there."

Nodding, Jane stands too, holding her half-finished meal carefully against her abdomen. Michonne has already collected a towel and a bar of soap, so she sets the bowl down and gets her own toothbrush and supplies. They walk together down the steady slope towards the creek and set up on its rocky bed, laying their things out on a high shelf of grey slate. Michonne undresses quickly, tossing her clothes next to the towels, her face impassive as she keeps to herself. She is already in the water by the time Jane has her boots off, cupping water to wash herself.

Carefully peeling off her tank top, Jane turns her back to the other woman, anxiety stealing her nerves and turning her fingers to uncooperative jelly. She feels thin and fish-belly white in the contrast to the earthy tones of the woods around her.

Dropping her pants, she quickly discards her bra and underwear too and steps into the water, keeping her eyes low, avoiding Michonne's. She can feel the other woman's eyes lingering on the mottled bruises that are still healing across her ribs and the inseam of her thighs, ugly blue and yellow marks that have faded over time. Folding in on herself she crouches until her knees hit the muddy bottom of the river and she begins to wash herself, unable to control the trembling of her body.

Michonne moves closer, now wrapped in a towel, and hushes her when she tries to protest. The other woman moves behind her to where she knows the cuts are, slashes in her skin in some places, careful carvings in others. She hears a soft tsk as fingers graze below her right shoulder blade, weaving carefully over the jagged remains of her torture, Whore. It took him days to get it deep enough for his liking, a small pen knife working over the skin, again and again.

"This one's infected," Michonne tells her, her fingers barely grazing the middle of her back. "Let me clean it for you."

Nodding, Jane closes her eyes, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as the cool water both soothes and burns the wound, like fire licking across her skin. She holds her breath, keeping in a cry of pain that threatens to rip from her chest, and forces it back down, her nails finding the skin of her own thighs, just above her knees. By the time Michonne is done she is numb to the shame of her exposure, to the soap stinging her back, to the half-moon cuts in her legs where her nails have drawn blood.

She feels damp, rough terry-cloth fall over her shoulders and she realizes that Michonne has given her her towel. Getting to her feet she steps carefully out of the stream and begins to dress, keeping her back to the other woman who joins her to put her own clothes back on.

'What the hell happened to you," Michonne mutters, her voice too guarded and soft to be expecting an answer.  
______

They pack their things quickly when Michonne announces that they will be moving on. The tent folds and rolls into a small pouch that Jane silently takes and tucks into her own bag. The other woman doesn't have many other supplies that she takes with her and she motions for Jane's bag, telling her that they will need to travel lighter. She has decided they will head further south so that the winter will be milder. As she sorts through the pack, Jane watches with an air of scepticism as her supplies are sorted into two piles, only one of which she knows will come with them.

When Michonne hands her back her bag it is much lighter, but Jane can't tear her eyes away from the cans of food that have been left to be discarded. She shakes her head slowly, already feeling the high cramping ache of hunger that she had known for too long, and she wordlessly begins to repack her bag, unable to part with the food.

"It'll get heavy," Michonne warns, but Jane ignores her, hands fumbling to cram the supplies back into her bag. She leaves everything else behind, agreeing that she can do without the excess weight. "You're a strange cat, Jane," the other woman mutters, reaching out.

The movement of Michonne's hand is sudden, too quick, and Jane feels her muscles clench as she flinches away, lifting her own hand in self defence. Her nails drag and uneven gash through the other woman's skin as she backpedals, fumbling over the forest floor, her needs pounding against her chest. It is only after she is settled on her ass and watching a single drop of blood slide down the inside of Michonne's wrist that Jane registers that that the other woman had been offering her a hand up. Her gaze meets dark irises that are like mirrors, reflecting her own wide-eyed expression back at her. But as Michonne slowly turns her arm over to inspect the shallow slice in her skin she barely reacts, her face a placid calm that instantly sets Jane at ease.

"Jumpy," Michonne mutters, holding her palms up and moving back. "You do it yourself then," she adds, wiping her arm off on her shirt, leaving a thin swipe of blood across the fabric covering her stomach.

Pushing her hair behind her ears with shaky hands she nods and gets to her feet, dusting dry leaves and dirt off her jeans. They don't say anything else to each other as they head out, though Jane knows that her companion has questions. She is grateful that they are never posed and that Michonne is the type of person who is content with silence.

They are not alone in the woods, Jane knows, and they keep their eyes trained on the gaps between the trees for any signs of movement. They have been walking for miles before Jane begins to slow, her back protesting the weight of the canned food that she had insisted they carry. She is nervous to admit to Michonne that it would have been wiser to leave it behind in case the other woman insists she do so now. She is inventorying the supplies when she is stopped by a hand on her shoulder. Following her companions line of sight she spots something in the distance, a wide platform settled atop of a natural rock formation.

"Probably a hunting blind," Michonne tells her, heading towards the structure that is camouflaged well in the thick green woods. Upon closer inspection Jane notes the wooden branches that have been stacked in rough uneven piles and tied together to create fences that remind her of the Blair Witch Project. "Look like you've seen a ghost," Michonne jokes, elbowing her as she walks around the structure, looking for a way up.

Jane watches as the other woman wedges her toe into a small crack in the rock and step up, her strong biceps flexing as she pulls her body towards the platform. Jane isn't sure that she will have the upper body strength to follow, but she saunters over anyway after a nervous glance around the woods. She tosses her bag up to Michonne first and then inspects the grey toned structure. Reaching upwards, she tries to replicate Michonne's demonstration and is surprised to find that it is even harder than she'd imagined. The rock is rough against her fingers making it almost painful to grip. Determined, she pushes upward, finding each crack blindly with the toes of her boots.

Sweat beads on her brow and at the nape of her neck, sliding down her spine and into the small of her back. By the time she lands one knee on the stony platform and then the other, her abdominal muscles feel as though they've been severed and shredded. She is panting hard, almost unbearably loud and she closes her eyes, trying to catch her breath.

"They got Crazy Cheese," Michonne holds up a can and wiggles it enticingly.

Jane takes the cylinder and glances over the label sceptically, looking at the salt content and the ingredients. In her past life she never would have been caught dead putting something called Sodium Algenate into her body. Now, her mouth waters as she tilts her head back and presses on the nozzle.

As she allows the salty, cheesy contents of the can to melt in her mouth, she hands the can back and settles into a more comfortable position, sitting with her legs stretched out, the soles of her boot touching Michonne's. Leaning back onto her palms she tilts her head back to look at the canopy of trees above them, discreetly stretching out her sore back. The leafy green branches sway in the light breeze, allowing the sun to filter through gaps that are there one second then gone the next.

"Stay here I'll come back every morning," Michonne says, quickly drawing Jane's attention back to the other woman, confusion flooding her brain. When her eyes settle on the paper in the other woman's hand she squints, then reaches out to take the note. "So you can read," Michonne commented, taking another mouthful of cheese.

Offended, Jane sets the paper down on the floor, unable to contain the scowl that crosses her features. Of course she could read – once upon a time she'd loved to read, curled up in bed while she'd waited for him to get home from work. Her favourite café had had a book exchange where she'd trade worn paperbacks for other equally well-read novels with finger-prints smudging the ends of paragraphs and dog-eared corners. Sometimes the most magical part of the adventure was knowing that others had taken it before her – it had been a comfort that made her feel not so alone after the house had gone quiet at night.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Michonne picks up the note again, her face stoic and unreadable. "What'ya think?"

Lifting a shoulder, Jane's eyes fell on the folded blankets stacked neatly in the corner next to Michonne, and then the basket of food items. She was weary of accepting help from anyone, it could be a trap. Sometimes a hand extended in friendship was just a decoy for the one holding the knife.

"Me too," Michonne agreed, sorting through the basket. Jane watches her for a moment before pushing herself to her feet and walking towards the corner of the platform, her arms crossed over her chest. The wooden sides reach the top of her shoulders as she surveys the tall bark-covered pillars and the shrubs that rise up from the forest floor. Her arms are sore from climbing and she is tired from her sleepless night. The structure is high enough that they will be out of immediate reach, but it is open so she doesn't feel claustrophobic. She supposes if they stayed for the night and set out early it wouldn't be such a bad thing.

The sound of metal scraping catches her attention and she turns around to see Michonne opening the cans from her pack. Brow pinched, Jane approaches her and crouches down, wondering if the other woman intends on eating all of their food supply. She is reluctant to try to stop her because though they have known one another for just a day she does not doubt Michonne's survival skills. Sitting back she watches the scene unfold as each of the cans is opened and set down in the space between Michonne's legs, their lids pulled back and standing upright.

"Got an idea so you don't kill yourself carrying all this around," Michonne sets the can opener aside and digs in her bag for a moment before pulling out a rectangular white box: baggies. "Since it seems you're about as stubborn as I am but not as good at problem solving."

Jane catches the cheeky glint in her companion's eye and takes a handful of bags, barely holding back her own smile. It feels odd to be amused, to be anything but numb or afraid. They work together to dump the contents of the cans into the baggies, carefully squeezing the air out of them before they seal them shut.

They repack their bags, this time distributing the weight between them. "I think we should stay here for the night," Michonne says decidedly, pulling her blanket out from her bag. She lifts out the towel too, still damp from that morning and hangs it over the walls, creating a canopy over their heads. Jane watches her for a moment then begins on her own task, pulling a long string out from her pack. Using her knife, she punches jagged holes in the sides of the cans then threads the rope through them, creating a chain.

"Where are you going?" Michonne asks as Jane slides over the edge of the platform as climbs back down to the forest floor. "Stupid askin' you since you don't talk," she hears the other woman mutter but ignores the comment as ties the "alarm system" around two trees. It only covers one part of the potential entry points that would allow someone to access the structure but it is better than nothing.

Michonne is already laying down on her blanket by the time Jane returns to the platform, a book held open above her face. Jane leaves her to it and sets up her own bed against the other wall, which is only a few feet away. She lays down on the hard surface, watching the other woman read, silently fascinated by the other woman's expressions as they shift along with the story.

"You ever read this?" Michonne asks, turning the book to face her. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Jane shakes her head, reaching out to take the novel. It is a newer print, its spine barely broken. Turning the pages, her eyes flick over the words, barely registering them as she feels recognition and familiarity begin to register in the far recesses in her brain, creeping forward jagged hoar frost, jagged, but beautiful.

A boy, just turned five, she remembers, because they'd just gone shopping for a new outfit for his first day of school. He is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, his neck craned upwards as he watches the tv, wide-eyed, his bowl of cereal forgotten in his lap. Why does he have to stay up in that place? he had asked, tearing his blue eyes away from the screen to meet hers.

Because he was safe there. Because his father was afraid that people would be scared of him if they saw him. She explains, setting his new pants aside, only one leg successfully hemmed.

But, mom, he whispers, getting to his feet and sitting beside her on the couch, his head finding her shoulder. He's so sad and alone - he don't want to be alone anymore.

Doesn't want to be alone anymore, she corrects lightly, smoothing her hand over his short brown hair. And don't worry, he won't. There is always someone out there who wants to be our friend. We just have to find them.

How could we know if they want to be our friend? He asks, watching the screen carefully.

She considers his question for a moment and pulls him closer. You can see it in their eyes.

She snaps the book shut, pushing it away along with the memory that tears at her heart and makes her eyes burn with tears that feel like acid. Michonne takes it back and closes it, her full mouth turns downward, her thumb smoothing over the pages. Her eyes are soft around the edges but full of strength as she holds Jane's gaze with a sense of stubborn knowing. "I know," her voice is low and guarded. "I had a kid too. It gets heavy sometimes."

XXXX

She wakes as it is still dark besides the light of a candle that burns next to her at the table. She feels groggy and confused and when she tries to speak it feels as though her mouth is stuffed full of cotton. Licking her lips, her tongue is like sandpaper – she needs water.

"You're awake," a hulking form appears in the doorway then approaches her, taking a seat beside her on the narrow bed. "Don't worry, I'm a doctor," he tells her, taking her hand in his own. "I'm going to help you."

Squinting, she tries to make out his appearance in the low light, but can only see shadows and the glint of flames reflecting on his eyes. He releases her hand and cracks the seal on the bottle of water, which he offers to her after lifting her head, his large palm cradling her neck carefully. "I had to do a lot of work to stop you from bleeding out," he explains. "You're going to need time to heal."

Swallowing the lukewarm water she shakes her head. "No," she rasps, cringing at the pain in her throat. Her thoughts turn quickly to her family.

"Shh," he lays her head back down and fixes her blanket. "You worry about getting better. You're safe here," he stands, the bed springs releasing with a series of squeaks. "It will be nice to have some company."

Her mind is foggy as exhaustion sweeps over her, pulling her back into darkness. "Home," she mutters, her eyes closing out the room and the shape of him standing in the doorway.

"You already are."


	4. Chapter 4

The old man appears from between two trees very early the next morning, before the sun has had a chance to warm into more than a soft glow that isn't quite strong enough to light the shadows cast by canopy of leaves overhead. His hair is almost white and pulled back into a pony-tail that rests at the nape of his neck and falls to just above his shoulders. He is thin, but looks spry enough as he approaches the structure where they'd spent the night.

"Looks like someone I used to know," Michonne whispers almost to herself, her eyes squinting at the man, sweeping over his soiled button down that looks like hemp, to Jane. She agrees, eyeing his grandfatherly, white beard that hugs his face in a way that is familiar from another lifetime. "Seems harmless enough," Michonne whispers, pushing herself to her feet.

Jane follows suit, trusting the other woman's instincts, though she still sets her hand on the blade of her machete. Together they pick their way from around the shrubbery that they had been using to conceal themselves, twigs and broken branches crunching under their feet. When they reach the platform the man has taken a seat on the edge of it, his aged hands folded in his lap.

"I was concerned you'd moved on," he tells them, his voice soft and thick with an English accent. Jane can't help but instantly fall for the gentle crinkles around his blue eyes. "My name is Jacob," he greets, extending his hand to Michonne first - who shakes it briefly – and then to Jane. His skin is like leather in her hand and warm to the touch.

"You have a place?" Michonne asks, straight to business, her voice belying a distant edge that Jane worries will scare the old man off. Her eyes sweep the woods, as though she is expecting some kind of an ambush.

Jacob turns, and for the first time Jane can see his age in his movements. His joints move more stiffly and his breathing is uneven as he climbs down the rock. When she moves to brace him, Michonne catches Jane's shoulder, holding her in place. She takes a careful step back when he has his feet on the ground, guiding Jane with her.

"So you just help people or something?"

Jacob nods. "Not too far, to answer your first question. And yes," he picks up what looks like a walking stick from beside the platform and points in the direction that he'd come from. "Or something," he adds with a slight twinkle in his eye.

He leads the way and Jane falls into step with Michonne. Jane is surprised by her hardened reaction to the man considering that she'd been the one to suggest they wait to see who would come, and then approved going with him. Watching the other woman's periphery she notices the downturn of her mouth and reaches out to touch her bare bicep, drawing her attention. Her companion eyes her for a moment before swallowing heavily and retuning her attention to Jacob's back. "Like I said, he reminds me of someone. He's dead now."

Jane nods her head, trying to convey her sympathy for the other woman. She knows how hard it is so lose people, it makes you feel like you've lost yourself.

They eventually come to a stop at the foot of a very old tree, its trunk thick enough that the three of them holding hands around it wouldn't be able to hug its circumference. She looks around confused, and then follows Jane to the other side where she finds a series of boards hammered into the trunk, straight up, way up. She follows them with her eyes as they disappear into a hole in a platform that has been built around the tree.

Jake begins to climb first, taking each board with one confident step at a time. Michonne follows him, leaving Jane on the ground. She spots a stony well a few feet away that is old and moss covered, its stony sides chipped and blackened with age. A long rope descends from the treetops and down into the center of the well, and Jane is impressed by the ingenuity.

She takes just a second more to admire it before following Michonne up.

The tree-house is visually stunning with rough wooden walls that are intertwined with the natural growth of the tree branches. She spots the top of the rope, secured with a metal bucket and a pulley system. She tests the structure with each step but it feels solid under her feet. The entire setup reminds her almost of something she'd see in Neverland, and she half expects the small cabin to be filled with hammocks for The Lost Boys.

Instead she finds a simple platform bed piled with blankets and furs, a table for two, and a fireplace that reminds her of the well at the base of the tree. The ceiling is low, barely a foot above her head and she realizes there are no windows that let any natural light in. The space is charming, but dark and small, and almost impossible to breathe in. Stepping back outside she crosses her arms over her roiling stomach and walks to the edge of the platform that is sealed off by a simple fence.

"Don't mind her," she hears Michonne say. "I think she has a thing about small spaces."

When Jake promises to leave the door open, Jane allows herself to be coaxed back indoors, though she avoids going much further than a few feet inside. Jake is fairly talkative and is clearly accustomed to having visitors as he moves easily around the additional bodies in the room, puttering with an iron kettle and pans. The wood floor is worn smooth under her hands as Jane lowers herself onto it, her palms splayed across the floor as she arches her back to stretch out her sore muscles. The oak planks beneath her shift and creak each time Jake shifts and she looks around the small space, it doesn't seem so bad when she is on the floor and the ceiling is no longer brushing the crown of her head. Michonne has taken a seat on one small bunk, her shoulders hunched, her forearms resting on her thighs.

"So you just leave here by yourself?" she asks, watching Jake carefully. Jane doesn't miss that she keeps her katana at her side, always within arms reach. Her own weapon is resting across her crossed legs. Jane lifts her head at the question and she tunes in more closely to their host.

"For a long time now," he answers, turning a crinkled smile towards Michonne first, and then towards the door. "Built this place a long time ago with my sons, as a hobby project – wasn't quite as elaborate as it is now," his stiff fingers worked over a tea towel in his hands, his thumbs tracing a worn rose pattern – a woman's touch. Moving her eyes around the room again she notes an oil painting above the hearth of a small clearing captured in spring, bursting with flowers. A pink throw blanket tossed across the foot of the bed beneath Michonne – a pewter hand-mirror on a shabby chest of drawers. A woman had lived here, and she wondered how long ago.

"Never thought," Jake laughs, a low high-brow chuckle that seemed born more from polite obligation than actual humour. "Never thought it'd end up as my home. But here I am." As his mouth lifts into a small smile, Jane sees a flash of his teeth for the first time, tinted yellow… looking towards the fireplace again she spots a blue tin with a rusted tea infuser resting on top. Jake, with his worn wool cardigan and his brown cords reminds her entirely of a classic English gentleman: almost grandfatherly.

Michonne gets to her feet and moves over to help the man with a large cast-iron pot as he moves it from next to the stove to the fireplace. Jane watches the two of them with interest as she guides her knees to her chest. The room seems much smaller with the two of them standing, looming over her. Edging backwards towards the door she feels her heart pick up speed when Michonne turns to her and takes a step in her direction, her figure too large for the low ceiling.

XXXX

She is still in a lot of pain the first time she forces herself to get out of bed. Her abdomen aches straight through her as though she'd been impaled and she clings to it fiercely through the fabric of her shirt. She has to pee, desperately, and she peers around the small dark cell, her eyes barely adjusted to the low glow of the candle resting on the table in the thin hallway.

"I need to use the bathroom," she calls out, her voice is raw and her throat sore. She needs water and something to take the edge off the pain.

A chair squeaks around the corner of the left side of her cell, but she can't see the other space due to the thick wall, not even when she wraps her fingers of the iron bars that cage her in. He appears in her line of vision and she can hear his ragged breathing as he approaches the cell. "Taken care of it," he points towards the dark corner beside her, his thick forearm and fingers flickering shadows in the candle flame.

Squinting, she finds the vague shape of a bucket with her eyes before she uses her toe to prod the side of it. "I uh…" clearing her throat she turns back to his face, obscured by shadows. "There isn't a toilet," her voice falls flat on her question that sounds more like a disappointed statement.

"Go on then and I'll empty it for you." His voice, rough, but sincere, makes her skin crawl. She doesn't have pants or underwear and the shirt she is wearing smells faintly of body odour and barely touches the tops of her thighs. She runs her fingers over the hem, wondering how she'll manage to get down to the toilet and then back up again with her injuries.

When she turns back to him her predicament dies on her mouth as she sees him still standing there, his chest rising and falling, his meaty hands wrapped around the bars of her cell as he steps forward.

She can't see his face but she can feel his eyes on her, making her itch all over.

"Don't got all day, girl," he shifts in the shadows, his bulk settling as he leans forward his stomach presses into the bars.

Turning away she walks shakily back to her bunk and slowly settles onto it, her hand gripping her stomach. Reaching for the balled up sheet that she'd discarded at her feet she pulled the fabric over her bare legs, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. "I don't have to go after all," she mutters, withering away from his stare.

His chest heaves with a single syllable grunt as she moves back into the other room. "Shy, huh, pretty girl? That'll change," he tells her, his voice drawing further away. "I ain't offended, we aren't acquainted yet. We both just gotta give it a bit of time, that's all."

Her urge to pee forgotten, she lays down slowly, her cheek finding the blue and white, pinstripe bare mattress. Closing her eyes, she assures herself that it won't be too long until they find her and she'll be able to go home.

That is the first night he comes to her. She is exhausted and she can't stop the constant trembling of her limbs and the shuddering of her abdominal muscles as her stomach roils under her hand. She begs for sleep to claim her and it is just beginning to acquiesce with the dimming of the room as her eyes draw close, when her knees are pushed over as he takes a seat on the bed. The mattress dips and she groans, turning her face into it.

"Shh," he mutters and she feels his fingers in her hair, pulling it back clumsily to push it behind her ears. His fingers smell like canned meat as they trace her cheek and guide her face upwards again. "Let me see you," he whispers, his thumb pressing painfully into her jaw as he cups her cheek. His other hand on her shoulder forces her onto her back and before he can do anything she knows his intentions by she heat of his breath as his lips dip into the follow of her throat.

"Ugh," she groans, trying to push him away, her hands connecting with the side of his neck. "Get o-," her protest dies when his hand closes over her mouth, his palm moist against her face.

He shushes her again before releasing her mouth and her gasp for fresh air dies as his knee collides with her chest, a solid jab into her sternum when he climbs over her awkwardly until he is straddling her under her ribcage. The weight of him on her shredded abdomen has her gasping sobs that rob her of precious oxygen, and hot tears slide loosely over her temples to cool in her hairline. Her world explodes in bright fiery agony that overwhelms her senses until they short out. She is barely conscious for the rest as the room fades away into inky black that is punctuated by his heavy breathes and the crown of her head rhythmically thumping against the concrete wall.

He stands afterwards, his figure casting shadow across her face, darkening her world, and then fixes her blanket. When he shows no signs of leaving she turns her back to him, the process painstakingly slow. He doesn't move to touch her again, but she can feel him there, looming, watching, waiting for next time. 

XXXX

"It's okay," Michonne whispers, taking a step back, her hand motioning for Jane to calm down. "I was just going to give you some tea," she explains, her voice on edge, but confident.

At her words Jane realizes that she has clenched her fist around her machete and pushed herself back against the doorframe, ready to bolt. She has to force herself to uncoil, and she begins with her fingers, one at a time. Her body is reluctant and fights her, but eventually she sets her weapon down and seats herself – she can't look at Jake, so she lowers her eyes to her feet.

"Drink this up," Michonne urges, offering her a chipped tea cup. Its handle is torn half-away, leaving rough porcelain that she runs her thumb over as she takes a sip.

Jane spends the rest of the day listening to Jake and Michonne talk between themselves. Their conversations are shallow exchanges of information about survival tactics and the construction of the treehouse. "You have a lot of guests?" Michonne asks when silence falls over the dimming room as the sun sets.

Jake considers the question. "Some, mostly people passing through that are looking for a nudge in the right direction," he finally answers, tending to the stew that he has been simmering for most of the day.

"And which direction is that?" Michonne has settled back onto the hammock, her head resting against the wall behind her.

Digging into the depths of the pot with a long-handled wooden label to dish out the meal into hand-carved bowls. "South," he tells her, getting to his feet. "I heard as far south as Key West – you can catch a ferry there to take you to Cuba. The Cuban's closed their borders when the epidemic hit. It's safe there." Jane accepts her bowl from him easily, surprised when his approach doesn't set off her nerves. Nodding her appreciation she takes a spoon too and stirs the stew, taking her time to enjoy the smell and the hot steam rising up from the bowl. She considers his story and is sceptical, a quick glance at Michonne tells her that she isn't the only one.

"How do you know this?" she asks, sitting forward on the hammock until her feet connect with the wooden floor.

"I have a past," Jake answers, clearing his throat. "Further, could it be any worse than the way it is here? Dwindling resources? The dead eating their way through the forests, collapsing in the rivers and creeks, poisoning the water. There is nothing left here," he sits hands Michonne her bowl and sits back down on his stool. "It's not coming back."

Michonne cups the bowl in her hands, her mouth hardened into resistance as her eyes narrow. "You in the Government? Past… what does that even mean?"

Jake lowers his eyes to his bowl. "I was a diplomat, yes. I was supposed to go home when the virus began spreading, but my wife developed a fever. It was benign, a flu at best, but they wouldn't let us on the plane. When the city became over-run we went to our cabin, not too far from here, but we lost that too. She was bittin, it was horrendous, and she died," his eyes settled on the hammock where Michonne sat, and Jane caught the other woman's uncomfortable shift. "My sons too, not long after, and it has just been me for a long time – so yes, I have a past. Don't we all?"

Brow furrowed, Michonne set her bowl on her lap and took a breath deep enough that Jane could hear it. Her own food also forgotten, Jane looked between the two of them, wondering what to believe. Jake's story was tragic, though no more so than other's she had heard, no more so than her own.

"If it's so great, then why are you still here?" Michonne finally asked, and it struck Jane as as good a question as any.

Turning back to Jake, she found the old man's blue eyes settled on her, his gaze full of a sadness so deep that she felt it in her own heart. Swallowing, she broke contact, but not before she caught the wistful smile that conveyed a deep longing. "All of my ghosts are here," he lifted his eyes to sweep them over the ceiling and around the room. "They're still right here with me, and I can't bear to leave them."

"How do you propose we get to Key West?" Michonne asks, pulling Jane's attention back to her. Another good question.

"There is another group that I sent that way, not a day ahead of you. They're good people," Jake is standing now, his hands shoved into his pants pockets as he shuffles around the room. "You could catch up to them and travel together. I have…," he begins to dig through the drawers and eventually pulls out a stack of maps and he selects one before tossing the rest back into the drawer. "I've drawn it out, if you follow it you'll catch up to them, hopefully before they get to the car lot. You'll have to leave early in the morning, they have children with them, so they'll be slower."

"Why?" Michonne accepts the map, her eyes fixed on his face. "Why would you want to help people you don't even know."

"Wouldn't you?" Jake asks without hesitation.


	5. Chapter 5

Jake already has breakfast ready by the time Jane wakes the next morning, her body sore and stiff from sleeping on the ground. Sitting up slowly, she smoothes one hand over her cropped hair and arches her spine, her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure as she stretches out her muscles. They eat in relative silence, so Jane uses the time to pore over the map – it is a long way between where they are and where they intend on going. She is surprised, however, by how far south she is already.

They sort through their supplies quickly, and they trade out their cans for Jake's meal replacement bars and bricks of Datrex emergency food rations. The sun isn't even up as they descent the ladder to the forest floor again. Jane keeps the map as a careful barrier between herself and Jake when he offers her a hug, and he seems to get the point, instead opting for light hand on her shoulder. She lets her eyes meet his for a moment and nods, hoping to convey her gratitude for his hospitality. Michonne is already several feet away, passing between the trees, so Jane hurries after her, her hands gripping the straps of her bag.

When she falls into step next to Michonne, they walk shoulder to shoulder for a few moments before Jane glances at the map again, wondering whether this is a good decision at all. It is a long distance between where they are and where the line ends on the map with a small star, and they don't know anything about the group that they are supposed to be meeting up with. Her stomach turns at the thought of being surrounded by strangers...

"If you don't want to do this we'll turn around. Head in another direction," Michonne finally speaks up, though she keeps her eyes forward and her steps even, pushing forward. "Just say the word."

Faltering, Jane tears her eyes from the map to look at her companion, her own eyes widening.

"Bad choice of phrase," Michonne's mouth lifts into a wry smile that barely turns up the corners of her mouth, but Jane catches the lightness in her voice and the light sparkle in her dark eyes. "Just blink twice or somethin'."

Jane was surprised by the other woman's jab at humour and found herself smiling too. Holding out the map, she offered it to Michonne who looked down at it. "You good with meeting up with another group?"

Considering the question, Jane's smile faded as she thought about what it would be like to be with other people again. In another lifetime she'd been sociable enough. She'd loved to meet up with other mom's at their local café and she'd been a member of the PTA.

"Jane, I'm not gonna let anything happen to you," Michonne interrupted her thoughts, and when Jane looked up she found her companion looking at her. "Not that you need much protecting," she smirked, indicating Jane's machete with her chin. "You've got this."

Finding her smile again, Jane turned the weapon over in her hand. It was true that she'd held her own for a while since escaping. Which was something she'd never imagined she'd be capable of. She'd clawed her way back to her full strength and then some, and she'd healed. Maybe she was still a little broken, but if she could get through what she'd been through then maybe anything else was possible.

"So?" Michonne prodded, her hand closing around Jane's to turn her until they were standing almost toe-to-toe.

Nodding, Jane took a deep breath and swallowed, gathering her nerves. Lifting her eyes from the hollow of Michonne's throat she met those across from her, almost black orbs that reflected the woods around them like mirrors. She pursed her lips and on a long exhale she blinked once, and then again.

"Okay, then," Michonne released her and started walking again. "I hope you know how to read that map."

____

By midday the sun burned hot as the trees thinned and they found themselves exiting the woods, reddening the curves of Jane's shoulders and the bridge of her nose. Her back stung viciously as salty sweat formed along her spine and her backpack chafed, aggravating her still-healing wounds. Her thighs and abdomen hurt too, an uncomfortable reminder that her body was still recovering from her trauma. She is checking their surroundings when Michonne's hand lands abruptly on her forearm and they come to a stop. Jane immediately locks onto the danger ahead, four figures stumbling over an overgrown farmer's field, their feet caught up in the too-high grass that brushes where their skin has pulled tight over protruding knuckles.

"Eight," Michonne tells her, edging back into the woods until she is partially concealed by the new growth trees.

Squinting, Jane peers into the field again and lifts her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. She counts the four again, the sweeps over the browning, parched grass until she locates another four that have become attracted to the sun glinting off the wheel rim of a tractor not too far off.

Michonne slides her katana out of its sheath and starts forward, stepping over a partially collapsed fence, her foot smashing the rusted barbed wire into the earth. She glances over her shoulder at Jane who follows, pulling her own weapon free. It is hard to see too far ahead of them with the sun blinding them and the grass rising up to above their waists. The field is alive with gnats and grasshoppers that spring in and out of sight in Jane's periphery.

She keeps an eye on the tractor, where the closest of the eight have picked up on their presence and have abandoned the reflection. Their thin bodies stagger slowly across the field and Jane readjusts her grip on her machete as she watches them close in. She finds that she isn't afraid at all – she isn't afraid to die; she's already been to hell and back. Instead she finds a fire spark in her chest and she thinks how good it will feel to drive her blade into the spot right between the eyes of the woman with the blonde hair that has been reduced to straw-like wires and chest that is torn open to reveal a hint of a yellowed breast-plate, buried in strands of mottled grey flesh.

"I'll take right," and then Michonne is gone from her side and veering off, giving her blade an efficient swipe through the hair that takes the head clean off a man in overalls.

Turning her attention back to the blonde, Jane meets her bloodshot eyes with their milky yellowed irises and take a step forward, her own chest rising and falling evenly. Hooked fingers are inches from her own throat when she slides her machete upwards and gives it a solid push, shoving it through the underside of the woman's jaw where she hears it break its way through into the brain. She lets the now limp body crumble at her feet, leaving her machete in place, and draws out her switch blade from her pocket.

Heart pounding from exertion, she pushes her bag off her shoulders and steps to the side as the staggering corpse lunges at her, but she is a second too slow and its fingers catch her short hair, wrenching her scalp forward. The world seems to slow then stop as its teeth graze the backs of her fingers that she has closed around its hand, trying to make it release her.

XXXX

"You have to eat to build up your strength," he is standing at the bars, his chest rising and falling as he inspects the untouched square brick of noodles floating in brown lukewarm water. She looks to it too, her stomach turning at the thought of eating it. Returning her eyes to the brick wall that the foot of her bed butts up against, she sets her jaw.

"My strength is fine. I want to go back to my family," she declares, the statement starting to sound like a skipping record in her own mind. "You can't keep me here."

He doesn't answer and she isn't the least bit surprised. Instead, he slips the keys out of his pocket to unlock the door then steps inside the cell, bringing with him the smell of sweat and something else that clings to him and makes her want to gag. Instead, she turns her face towards the back of the room and as far away from him as possible, closing her eyes.

"There's nothin' for you to go back to," he chuckles. "They're all dead." He bends over with a grunt and retrieves her bowl.

Swallowing, she watches him straighten up out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't believe that is true, not for a minute. How could they have come so far for it all to just be over? That wouldn't be right at all.

"You listenin' to me, girl?" his voice lifts, sending a jolt through her.

Though her body is on edge, she purses her lips and settles her eyes comfortably to his right so that she isn't really looking at him, and instead at the bowl in his hand. She nods, nervous about the way his grip on the rim of the bowl trembles slightly. "I'm listening… but I think you're a liar." The words come out with a calm frost that settles over the room, making the hair on her arms rise as she waits for a reaction. She gets it as the bowl flies across the room, narrowly missing her face, and rebounds off the wall before clattering to the floor.

"You little bitch!" she springs to her feet, still crouched on the mattress, but she is trapped between his charging form and the concrete wall behind her that she has flattened herself up against. "I did everything for you," his hands are like clamps on her shoulders and she squirms to free herself from grasp but he is unyielding as she claws at him.

"Get off-," her objection dies when the back of his hand connects with her face, dazing her long enough for him to grip the back of her neck.

Crunching up to relieve any of the agony that his hold on her creates, she freezes, head swimming, her heart thundering in her ears. "That all it takes, kitty?" he pinches a bit harder and whimpers, weak, and pathetic. His fingers have tangled themselves around her long brown hair, tearing it strand by strand from her scalp. "That's all it takes to make you squirm?" his breath is hot against her cheek and smells like sour milk. "I bet I know what else makes a naughty pussy like you get all bothered." 

XXXX

"Hey," something connects with her cheek in rapid succession, snapping her out of some sort of fog or sleep. Blinking rapidly to bring her world into focus she realizes she is sitting on the ground with Michonne crouched between her outstretched legs. Her eyes fix on the other woman's for a moment as she tries to reorient herself.

"There you are," Michonne's hand falls from Jane's cheek and she produces a water bottle as if by magic, its cap already unscrewed. Jane finds her hands being folded around the plastic bottle, as though they're being moulded like putty, and she looks down. "Drink this," her companion mutters, forcing the bottle and Jane's own hands upwards until she is forced to take a sip.

Michonne leaves her to it and gets to her feet to begin collecting their things. Jane's bag is tipped over and some of the items have spilled out. "I gotta hand it to you, I thought I was badass."

Furrowing her brow, Jane traces her eyes over the immediate field surrounding them, taking in the dozen or so bodies that lay scattered on the ground, most of them missing a limb or their head. "When the last of them burst out of that house I thought we were fucked," Michonne is still talking softly while she dislodges one of the machetes from a skull, using her foot to brace its forehead.

Pushing herself to her feet too, Jane smoothes a hand over the blood splatter that stains most of the front of her shirt. It stinks like decay and she sniffs, scrunching her nose in disgust. She never could really get used to the smell of death that constantly hung in the humid Georgia air. Deciding there isn't much she can do about it now, she dumps some of the water over her hands and rubs them clean before she crouches down to retrieve her bag.

"One of these days I'm gonna have to stop talking to myself," Michonne mutters, picking up the bottle to drain the last of the water. Jane ignores the comment, stung a little, which catches her off guard. Fumbling with the clasp on her repacked bag she wants to tell Michonne that maybe she should do that then, and maybe something else, but the words dry up in her useless throat.

Her companion must sense her change in mood because she crouches down again, her hand landing on Jane's slim shoulder, the gesture solid but not heavy. Jane finds herself eyeing the half-moons at her cuticles and the way her fingers grip the curve of her own shoulder. She finds herself involuntarily bristling under the woman's touch but fights the urge to back away.

"I'm teasing you, Jane. You don't have to talk if you don't want to… or if you can't or whatever it is, alright?" Jane tears her eyes away from Michonne's hand to meet her eyes for just a second before dropping them again, nodding. "We better go if we're gonna catch that group. Shouldn't be too far now."

Jane waits until the other woman has started walking again before she slings her pack over her shoulders. She is getting to her feet when her eyes fall on something on the ground, smashed into and half-concealed by dirt. Reaching down, she hesitates over the pink plastic - her fingers just inches from it – her mouth suddenly dry. She isn't sure where the reaction is coming from as she slides her finger through the ring of a pacifier and lifts it to eye-level, or she isn't sure why it is so strong. After all this time and after all the covering of old scars, this one hits her like a fresh whip, stinging her.

She also isn't sure why she does it, but she tucks the thing inside her pocket where it sits like a ton of bricks, heavy with each step. She turns over the image of tiny fingers grasping her own; a white basinet with a blue blanket printed with tiny dogs with globed helmets surrounded by stars and moons the shape of Michonne's fingernails.

Banishing the memory with a grimace she picks up her pace to follow her companion who has reached the edge of the field and a gate that sits ajar, a thick blue hooded sweater tossed over its post, its lock smashed in two.

"Jake better be right about this," Michonne whispers, sliding through a space just slightly wider than her hips.


	6. Chapter 6

The gate opens up to a narrow path and then onto a dirt road that stretches out into distant points on either side of them, isolated and still. There isn't much but woods that butt up against the road and overgrown farms that stretch out in all directions until they are swallowed up by the horizon. The sun is bright enough that she has to squint as it reflects off the glossy finish on the map and she feels Michonne's hair tickle her shoulder as the other women peers at the page from just slightly behind her.

Jane follows the other woman's finger along the page as she calculates their direction, and then falls into step with her when she heads east. The sun is burning her shoulders and the top of her head is scorching with no overhead coverage or shade in sight. The road beneath them is a sorry excuse for paved and their feet keep kicking up dust as they walk. They've made it a mile or so before Jane has to stop for some water and to catch her breath as she tries to cover a wince behind her water bottle – her back is on fire.

Michonne pulls out the map again. "Not much farther," she mutters, then hastily folds it up. "You good?"

Jane nods and loosens the straps on her bag before shrugging it off altogether. There is barely a breeze but her back can breathe and it is an instant relief to not have her bag rubbing against the damp fabric of her shirt, making it feel like sand paper against her wounds.

"Let's see," Michonne is already moving around to Jane's side, her hands reaching out to grasp the hem of her shirt. "It's bad?"

Jane is mildly embarrassed but nods, tensing at the feeling of her shirt sliding up, exposing her. She crosses her arms over her chest to keep the front of her shirt in place and shifts uncomfortably.

"It's bad," Michonne mumbles, retrieving her own water bottle. "The infection's getting worse. We'll need to get some alcohol to treat it and bandages to keep it clean. Maybe some antibiotics if we can get our hands on them." The water stings her wounds, especially just underneath her shoulder blade and she catches her lip with her teeth and clamps down. Finally, Michonne lowers Jane's shirt again then picks up her discarded bag and hands it to her. "Just a couple more miles."

Settling her bag back onto her back Jane nods, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. She wonders what they're a couple of miles from. Maybe more danger than if they'd taken their chances elsewhere. Maybe they'd missed the group altogether. She starts walking again, her shoulder lightly touching Michonne's and for the first time in a long time the contact feels good. Her companion doesn't seem to mind, so she keeps close, her eyes constantly sweeping their surroundings.

The sun drains her energy quickly and she is about to take another drink of water to ease the dryness in her throat when she stops, her ears catching a strange sound. Michonne's hand arm falls on her shoulder and they stop walking so they can listen in the absence of their boots scraping the road. Gnats buzz uncomfortably around her head and there is the sound of their own breaths and then silence except for a long wail that sounds – Jane identifies it as she lifts her chin towards it… a baby.

"Come on," Michonne seems agitated and suddenly more urgent, her body perking up despite the heat and the fact that they have been walking for hours. "That's got to be them."

They're on one corner of an intersection and they quickly cross the street in a slow jog towards a fence that is kitty-corner to where they are. It is a rusted chainlink that has black canvas screening stapled to its posts. Jane looks it over and guesses that it is at least eleven feet tall, but the piles of junked cars and parts are much taller, heaps of metal that tower over them. The crying is louder now and she catches Michonne looking around nervously to see if the sound is attracting any unwanted attention. Lucky for them, the area seems to be abandoned.

"I don't want them knowing we're here until we can get a good look at them," Michonne whispers and heads away from where Jane can see an entrance to the junk yard and a partially collapsed sign that has faded away from sun exposure. She follows on Michonne's heels, one hand on the leather machete sheath, the other on the handle. Her lungs ache as she takes tiny silent breaths and listens to the baby's wails. They get to the corner of the lot that is concealed by a brick building and Michonne slips her bag off her shoulders. Jane takes it by the strap before it can fall and steps back to watch the other woman climb the fence. Once Michonne hits the ground on the other side, Jane notes that there isn't much space between the fence and the building. The chainlink presses into Michonne's stomach as she motions for Jane to hurry. "Bags first."

Bracing her hand against the fence, Jane wedges her toe into a link and steps up while Michonne does the same. The chain rattles as they pass the bags and they both cringe and wait. It doesn't seem that anyone has heard so Jane begins to climb, her hands fumbling to grip the rusted metal. When she gets to the other side she realizes just how tight the squeeze is as the bricks snag her shirt, tugging on her. Reaching out she grasps Michonne's arm, sucking in steadying breaths as her face flushes hot… hotter… too hot.

"You're good," Michonne assures her, then indicates the end of the building.

Slipping her fingers through the fence to steady herself, Jane carefully picks her way around the building after Michonne, her feet sliding over broken discarded tiles and clay plumbing pipes. She keeps her head down to watch where she is stepping and her hand on Michonne's shoulder to keep herself straight and her eyes distracted from the way the walls seem to be closing in, the space becoming tighter. She is breathing easier when they are a few steps from freedom, but then Michonne stops suddenly, her muscles tensing underneath Jane's hand. She looks up to see what is going on freezes at the figure of a man standing there, a semi-automatic aimed square in the centre of Michonne's chest.

"Do. Not. Panic." Michonne's voice is steady and barely above a whisper.

Tightening her grip on the other woman's shoulder, Jane nods, though she feels the hair on the back of her neck begin to rise in fright as her heart begins to pound loudly in her ears.

"Who are you?" the man demands, his voice deep and authoritative. Jane can't pick her eyes up from where her fingernails are digging into Michonne's shoulder. The safety on this gun clicks as he flicks it off and time seems to come to a jarring halt. Sound fades away and all she can hear is a steady rushing in her ears as though she's been submerged under water. Tearing her eyes away from her own hand she steals a glance at his face, catching a ginger moustache and a set of hard piercing blue eyes that cut through her. Michonne's arms lift and bends over, forcing Jane to release her hold on her.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the gun and it crosses her mind that maybe she could take his hand off before he could pull the trigger. That thought is fleeting however when she realizes Michonne's hands are prying her fingers off her machete to place it on the ground next to her katana.

"…and this is Jane," her name drops into her though process link an anvil, a heavy thunk that snaps her back into the present. "Jake sent us. He said that you were good people," Michonne places the machete on the ground too and then rests her hand on Jane's shoulder. "Ain't that right?"

Jane nods in agreement.

"Well ain't that fuckin' cute," the man produces a pair of zip ties and tosses them at Jane. She fumbles to catch them and realizes just how badly her hands are shaking. "We are good people but I don't know ya'll from a fuckin' hole in the earth so I'm just gonna ask you to use those."

Michonne takes the zip-ties, "We aren't going to need them. And my friend here spooks easy so I don-," her companions voice is steady but firm as she speaks and Jane is grateful that there is someone to do the talking.

"This ain't a negotiation, sweetheart, and this ain't your diary – I ain't interested in your," the man's voice pitches down dangerously and Jane feels her already tight muscles tense further as she zones in on the gun, pointed squarely at her chest and flinches as it shifts with his stance. She doesn't even see it happened before she is lunging at him, a grunt escaping her mouth as she jackknifes him, attempting to drive him to the ground. The gun fires and her arm is suddenly stinging viciously, but she ignores it and reaches for his face, clawing at him. His larger hands catch her wrists and she finds herself on her back, his body pinning her to the ground, his weight crushing her.

"Jane!" Michonne's voice is somewhere in her periphery as she see's feet and legs appear, but she can't pay attention because she is still fighting him like a caged tiger, desperate to get him off her. She can't see him anymore because her wild hair has fallen over her face like a curtain. She is too tired to keep fighting him, her energy spent – she is too hurt, too tired, too beaten as she stills, her breath catching in her rib cage, her head spinning as she lets it fall back.

"Let her up," Michonne's voice is demanding and Jane wonders why she isn't fighting too. "It's okay… Jane. I said let her go."

"No fuckin' way. Bitch almost took my goddamn face off," she flips over easily and she finds her face crushed into the dirt ground and her arms wrenched behind her back. It hurts like hell and she thinks maybe she was shot, though that pain barely registers over her panic as she hears the zip as her hands are secured and then she is being hauled up, her feet tangled an unsteady as a newborn deer.

"Jane, it's okay, I know-," Michonne's palms rests against the back of her head for a moment as she is half-walked and half-dragged to some place she can't see through the hair that still covers her face.

"Come on, man, let up," another male voice insists, this one softer, kinder. "If Michonne says she's okay we take her word for it," they don't take more than a few more steps after the man's pleads end before she is dropped to her knees. She barely has time to wonder how this person knows her companion before she is frozen as a different voice calls out. One that she knows with every single fibre of her being.

"Oh, thank god," she hears a commotion and her heart is thundering in her ears as she hears more voices chime in: a girl with a sweet southern lilt, a gruff one, short and rough like gravel, one that she doesn't know at all but it is young and male, barely broken. And the baby, fitful cries that bring stinging tears to her eyes as they stay fixed on the scuffed thighs of her pants and the tiny shadows cast by the sun on tiny pebbles and a bottle cap on the ground before her.

"She's my friend," Michonne is saying. "Let her up – she's hurt."

"Of course," the voice is back again, this time closer and then closer as brown boots appear before her and then a pair of black jeans as he crouches down before her and hands a hand hesitates just inches from her face.

"Watch that right hook," the rough voice from before is back. "Don't give me that look, she's a fucking animal."

She winces as his hand comes closer and tries to move away, despite the trembling in her body that she isn't sure is fear or maybe something else that she hasn't felt for too long.

He freezes too. "No one is gonna hurt you. What's your name?"

XXXX

Her eyes are stinging with tears that hang on her bottom lashes, blinding her but too stubborn to fall. The skin on her back feels like it has been stretched too thin after what feels like hours of torture. He is breathing heavily as he straddles her back, crushing her into her soiled mattress that smells like blood, vomit, sweat …

"You're so beautiful," he slurs, grinding against her bare ass from where he has wrenched her nightgown up, leaving her exposed. "Too fucking beautiful…" he's viciously heavy and it makes it hard for her to catch her breath, she is lightheaded, maybe euphoric if it wasn't for the smell of stale alcohol that seems to bleed from his pores.

"Why do you gotta fight me, kitten?" he is whispering, his fingers rough and no doubt filthy tracing shapes on her bare back, rubbing into the wounds that he's reopened, this time with the lid of a can. "You know you want this… you want me…"

She swallows and turns her face into the mattress to stifle a sob. "No," she croaks, her voice parched and weak.

He doesn't even seem to hear her as he traces her spine. "I waited so long for someone like you. Trapped here, like a- like some kind of a fucking criminal… but then you came to me. I saved you, you're mine," his fingers stop at the base of her spine and his thighs tighten on either side of her. She hears him grunt and she knows he is touching himself. "Say my name," he demands, his voice breathy as he grinds her again. "Say it."

"Baby," she mutters, her chest shuddering as tears slip free and fall the short distance to soak into the mattress. "Baby," she says it again, just wanting it done so she can go to sleep.

"Now yours," he is groaning louder now as he picks up pace, his free hand falling to grip the meat of her asscheek. She can't, not this time… the word gets lodged in her throat and she can't make it come out as it swells there, threatening to burst her airway.

"Say it, whore, say it," he demands, his grip tightening, pinching her flesh painfully. "Whore, say it: whore."

It is filthy in her mouth and she wants her family. She wants this nightmare to be over. She doesn't want to be here anymore, with him, in this place. She doesn't want to be whore anymore. She doesn't want to hurt. "L-l-," she stutters the syllables that form the person that she used to be.

His hand lands against the back of her head and crunches her skull into the cement wall beside her as he comes. Dazed and dizzy she watches the black fog that seeps over her vision. "What's your name now?"

XXXX

"L-L-Lori?"

"Oh my god…" with her hair pushed back from her face she is bombarded with sunlight and the stricken faces of a group of people. The one that has spoken is young with large blue eyes and a blonde braid that falls over her shoulder.

She swings her eyes back to the man before her and absorbs the new wrinkles around his eyes and the scar on his right cheek that had never been there before. His eyes are wide, stunned and he falls backwards onto his hands as the colour drains from his face and he makes a sound that is primitive to fit the emotions on his face that are beyond language or words.

"Jesus fucking-," someone hits their knees beside her and she turns in slow motion to find Daryl with a knife in his hand. He doesn't say anything else as he cuts her hands free and catches her right hand to guide is slowly to her side, as though he isn't sure he is really there at all.

"I don't- how-," Rick's voice has returned but he sputters out words that end in abrupt silence.

She looks away from him to where Michonne is standing stoic, the expression on her face unreadable as she holds a very different looking Carl to her chest. He's tall… and lean, his round baby face longer, his cheekbones prominent. She finds his eyes and they stare at one another for a moment before he tears out of Michonne's arms and flings himself into hers with crushing speed and a sob that is like a bark, his face finding the spot between her neck and shoulder. Gathering him up she feels no hesitation in holding him as he cries into her and lets her rock him.

"How can this be real?" Rick's eyes sweep over their audience and then find hers again over the crest of their crumpled son's head. "Lori, I don't understand," he moves painstakingly slowly towards her and she fights the urge to wince as his fingers find her cheek, his face stunned as though he is waiting to wake up from a dream or for her to vanish.

Carl is still now, heavy as he lays against her, his breath hot against her throat. "I feel like I'm with your ghost," he mutters, his voice tear-stained and wobbly. "Please be real."

Rick's arms slide around her shoulders and his chin finds the top of her head. He lets out a sigh, long and deflating, like he'd been holding his breath the entire time. "Please be real," he repeats their son's words. "Please be real."


	7. Chapter Seven

She isn't sure how long they sit there, tangled up in one another on the ground surrounded my heaps of scrap metal. Rick is the first to pull away, but his hand lingers on her cheek as he turns back to the group. They've all moved off to a campsite that is a few lawn chairs and car seats arranged around a small low-burning flame. They're speaking in hushed tones that don't reach across the distance well enough that she can make out what they're saying.

"Lori," Rick says her name and she realizes how strange it sounds to her now after so long. Lori. Jane. Whore. They all kind of linger around her without exactly… fitting. Like a shirt that is the right size but just doesn't feel right. "Lori, I don't understand."

She looks down to where his hand has covered hers and wants to tell him everything. As though it could all be that simple.

"Mom?" Carl speaks this time and she is surprised again by how deep his voice is. "Can't you-," he starts to ask.

Rick eases his arm around her back and she anticipates his movements before they happen to work in tandem at getting her to her feet. "She just needs time, Carl. To adjust to things."

"No shit," her son mutters, jamming one hand into his jean pocket.

She catches his other hand as they approach the camp where the whispers immediately halt and all eyes fix on her again. Their stares make her want to crawl out of her skin or run away but Rick is already guiding her onto a bench that looks like it could clip into the back of a minivan. As though glued to her, Carl sits next to her, his side flush with hers and she thinks that maybe he hadn't grown up so much after all.

She strokes his too-long hair back from his forehead to distract herself from having to deal with all of the eyes on her. They'd thought she was dead… Baby'd be- he'd been telling the truth. They hadn't been looking for her at all. She can see it on their faces plain as day. But… where had they'd thought she'd gone?

"We should check on that arm," Rick whispers, reaching out to touch where a wound is still oozing steadily.

"Bullet must have grazed it," she looks up to catch Michonne shoot the red-haired man a death glare. "Lori has some wounds on her back too that need to be cleaned. Is there anything for that here?" The name sounds even stranger on when Michonne says it, maybe to both of them because the other woman hesitates on its second syllable.

Glenn gets to his feet and picks up a backpack. "We don't have much in the way of supplies. But we have some wet wipes… and some duct tape."

"No gauze, bandages?" Michonne is already approaching him and Lori notes how comfortable they seem together. She wonders how long they have known each other, and how, and why it hadn't come up before.

"This look like an infirmary to you?" The red-haired man stalks around towards the fire and nudges it with his boot before walking away again, his weapon in hand.

Arms full, Michonne approaches where Lori is seated. "Doesn't look like an asshole parade either, yet here you are…" she mutters, crouching down.

Carl snorts and moves to the side to let Michonne work though he keeps his hand twisted in the fabric of her shirt. The other woman unclips her knife and opens it. She uses one of the wet wipes to clean off the blade and Lori watches curiously at the process as she sinks the blade into a… diaper. The baby.

She finds Beth on the other side of the camp, a bundle of blankets on her lap that don't quite conceal an infant whose legs are draped over the young woman's knees. The baby is clearly asleep, the blanket pulled up over its head to protect it from the sun. She wonders if.. A sudden sting draws her attention back to her arm as Michonne wipes the graze with a swipe.

"What's up with him anyway?" she asks, inspecting the gash before placing a piece of the diaper over it. "Hold," she mutters and Jane lifts her hand to hold the make-shift bandage in place while Michonne looks for the end of the duct tape roll.

"Abraham?" Glenn asks, picking up a toolbox and heading towards a vehicle that someone has been working on. The white vans open hood creates a gaping mouth where the engine is exposed. "His plans didn't work out so well," the young man fills her in vaguely. "He thinks we're headed in the wrong direction."

Michonne continues to work on taping Lori's arm without another word, but Lori can see her friend's mind working.

Turning her attention back to the baby, Rick must catch her because his face cracks into a smile and the look in his eyes answers the flood of questions that disorient her. "Judith," he tells her, getting to his feet. Beth's smile is a shy smirk as she eases the sleeping baby into Rick's arms and Lori shifts nervously in her seat as her husband approaches with the bundle. The baby is big… maybe seven or eight months, she guesses. Had it been that long? Had she missed that much?

When Rick stops in front of her, their toes touching, she isn't sure what to do. "We called her Judith," Carl pipes in. "She's, uh," he falters too under the tension and seems to forget where he was going with the sentence. "Pretty cool," he finishes and hangs his head.

"Do you want to..." Rick gestures to pass the baby and before she can say no he has transferred the tiny girl into her arms. She is heavier than she looks and Lori's arm protests the weight, but she lowers the baby gently to her lap to compensate.

The baby is a little brunette with cheeks that Lori can tell already have been inherited from her side of the family. Soft brown hair sweeps across a curved forehead and Lori wonders what the baby's eye colour is. She looks like Carl did as a baby, down to the button nose and the shape of her chin, like Rick's.

"She's been kind of grumpy all day," Beth concedes lifting one shoulder, her fingers twisting around the end of her ponytail as though she isn't sure what to do with her hands now. "I think she misses Carol."

At the other woman's name, Lori glances around the camp and realizes she is absent. Maggie too.

"Oh, no," Beth quickly interjects, her cheeks tinged red. "Nothin' like that. She and Maggie jus' went to look for supplies. Formula for Judith, maybe somethin' for us too, you know…supplies. They just aren't back yet, is all."

Lori turns back to the baby in her arms as she stretches, her tiny hands closed into fists and her eyes open to reveal blue eyes that match her father and brother. The baby looks interested for a moment as she peers back at Lori, and then her lower lip quivers and her face morphs as she collapses into tears and tries to sit up. Lori helps her into and upright position but the volume of the infant's cries immediately set her on edge and she finds herself shoving her back into Rick's arms as she gets to her own feet and backs away.

"It's alright, she's-," Rick hands the baby to Carl and takes a few steps towards Lori, one hand extended as though he is trying to talk a jumper off a ledge. "She's just hungry and she doesn't know who you are yet."

Judith's piercing cries rattle through her and she finds herself backed up against the side of a crushed car with Rick still closing in. She knows on one rational level that it's just Rick; he'd never hurt her. But on another level, the one that seems to be winning, her heart is threatening to pound clean through her ribcage and she lifts her hands to block out the sound. Hands close over her own but they aren't stronger than hers – they don't dwarf her own. They don't fight to stop her but instead press harder, helping her to block out the sound as she slides down the side of the car, her knees finding her chest.

It takes her a few moments to get her frayed nerves back under control, but when she does she slowly opens her eyes to fall into the endless dark ones before her. "You good?" Michonne pulls her hands away and eventually Lori does too. She drops them onto the ground beside her and her knuckles connect with the compacted dirt. She's physically and emotionally exhausted.

"You good?" Michonne asks again. When Lori offers her a tentative nod she accepts it easily. "Why don't I clean up your back, okay?"

Lori finds Rick by the fire sitting on the edge of his seat, a still watery eyed Judith propped up on his forearm, her tiny fingers tangled up in his beard. Carl is gone and it takes her a second to locate him over by the van with Glenn, his hands closed around a wrench.

"Just us two," Michonne adds and Lori nods, grateful. She isn't ready for Rick to see her yet. When Michonne slips away to collect the medical supplies, Lori drops her head, her cheek resting on the bony curve of her knee. She'd never allowed herself to hope, not for a long time at least, that maybe one day she'd find her family again. That she'd hold her son or meet her baby. That she'd hear Rick's voice again. After she'd discovered the prison destroyed and abandoned she'd figured they were gone for good. And the baby, lifting her eyes she watching the tiny girl for a moment, unsure of how she was supposed to feel towards her. Instead of the fierce protectiveness that she felt for Carl she found herself numb and empty.

The sound of footsteps approaching her makes her look over to Michonne who is returning with the supplies. Moving stiffly, she pushes herself away from the car to give her friend access to her back. Shivering, she rests her chin on her knees as she feels her shirt slide up to expose her sore back.

"I'm going to have to clean it good," Michonne mutters, tearing open a wipe. "It isn't gonna feel like a trip to the spa."

Nodding her consent, Lori braces herself, sinking her teeth into her lip, her forehead dropping forward as she buries her face in her lap. A small whimper escapes her lips and an apology falls from Michonne's lips. The alcohol in the wipe stings badly enough that tears blur her vision and she finds herself gripping the fabric of her pants desperate for something to hold onto.

"You're good," Michonne assures her and saws off another piece of diaper. "Lot more where that came from. We're gonna have to do this a couple times a day."

Can't wait… Jane grits her teeth and glanced over her shoulder to catch the shape of Michonne's cheek and the thick ropes of her hair draped over her shoulder. "Don't give me that look," Michonne breathes tearing a piece of duct tape free from the roll.

Lori keeps her eyes on what she could see of her friend. They sit in silence for a few minutes while Michonne works, her fingers feather-light on Lori's skin, even when she pressed the tape into place. "So… crazy," the woman finally says, her voice steady.

Turning her head, Lori returns her eyes to Carl, her chest tightening. That was one word for it, she supposed.

"You ready to go back over there or should I keep pretending to be busy?" Tearing her eyes away from her son, Lori takes a deep breath to collect herself. She hadn't even noticed that Michonne had stopped working. She wonders how long she'd blanked out for.

Getting to her feet she takes a moment to dust herself off before approaching Rick again. He watches her carefully, his brow pinched in confusion and hurt as he pulls Judith closer, his hand cupping the back of her head to guide it into his shoulder. She wants to apologize, she means to, but her throat seizes like a fist, gripping her words before they can even form.

"Shhhh, kitty." Hot hands on her face, pushing her hair back off her brow, a clumsy pinky jabbing her in the eye , hot puffs of sour breath against her cheek. "Not a fucking word or I'll slit your fucking throat."

Something brushes the back of her hand and she looks down to find Rick's fingertips skimming over her skin, seeking her palm until she allows him to thread their fingers, locking them together.

"Lori," he swallows, his brow wrinkling as he leans forward to capture her eyes. "I- I don't know what happened… Jesus, I don't even know if this is real or if I'm just," he shakes his head slightly, as though he'd changed his mind about what he was going to say. "All I know is that if you're here this is a goddamn miracle"

It didn't feel like a miracle. Or not more than a sorry excuse for one.

"But whatever it is, whatever happened," he rises, the baby in his arms shifting to twist around to face her mother. "You're here and that's all that matters, right?"

The crystal sincerity in his blue eyes makes her heart hurt as she recognizes the man before her for the first time in a long time. After everything that had happened between them she wasn't sure if there was any hope for them left inside him. After all the months in the dark it was almost like a lighthouse across stormy, violent ocean that she'd been treading water in for too long.

"Incoming," Abraham calls out and Daryl gets to his feet immediately.

The two men jog over to the large rusted gate with its shredded black canvas cover, their feet kicking up dust in their wake. She turns to watch them undo a heavy latch and a thick rope of chain. Turning back to Rick she reaches for her machete before realizing it isn't strapped to her belt. Eyes darting around the camp, she locates her weapon propped up against a green duffle bag. Rick follows her eyes, his mouth settling into a barely-there smile.

"Won't be needing that," his thumb stroking her finger. "I'll be the others returning. Maggie, Carol, Sasha and her brother Tyreese."

The baby in his arms sighs and lays her head onto his shoulder, one pudgy cheek squished as she settles into him, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, blue eyes glazed over and sleepy.

Behind her the gates grind open and she turns to watch an SUV pull in enough to clear the gate and then come to a jerking stop. Glenn has already abandoned his tools before the first door opens and darts past her to scoop Maggie into her arms the second her feet his the ground. Others pile out, two people that she doesn't know – a bear-sized man and a slender woman. She has already forgotten their names.

Her eyes settle on the driver and she turns away from Rick to stare at the short-haired woman straight on. The other woman's movement have stilled, her fingers white-knuckling the top of the door, her greyish eyes widened on her stricken expression. A silent word falls from her lips but she doesn't move as she looks to Rick, her face paling until her skin looks almost transparent.

Maggie stands stock still too, Glenn's hand closed around his forearm as he whispers something in her ear. The young woman looks shaken - understandably – as her eyes slide towards Carl questioningly.

The camp is a tableau, and it seems like no one is willing to move first. Until Rick does, his hand settling onto her shoulder so suddenly that it startles her but she doesn't pull away and instead sinks her teeth into her cheek and bears the weight of it. Glenn says something to Carol as she slides the door closed and she pauses mid-step, then continues forward until she is within arms reach.

"I can't believe this is real," she whispers. "How is it possible?"

Eyes falling away from the other woman's to Rick's hand still on her shoulder, she feels shakes her head, unsure exactly what she is trying to say.

She winces as Carol's hands lift, but doesn't move away. Lowering her eyes again she watches nimble fingers slide under the hem of her shirt and lift it slowly, exposing her. The other woman's face remains placid but her eyes give her away as they well and glisten with a thin sheen of tears at the jagged scar that stretches like railroad tracks across her own abdomen. She doesn't have to see it to know how ugly it is.

"I wanted to save you," Carol's voice is tight and gravelly as she skims her fingers over the scar. "I thought-," she lifts her eyes, "Lori," a lone tear slips free and traces a tiny river down her cheek. "God, things never work out the way you think."


	8. Chapter Eight

She watches the way Rick keeps the baby – Judith – carefully on his hip as he moves around the campsite to coordinate their plans. The little girl sits comfortably in the crook his arm, her fingers lazily playing with the curls at the nape of his neck or the stubble on his chin. She seems to be at ease with everyone in the group, her blue eyes tracing their faces knowingly. Lori wonders if she can crawl yet, if she sleeps through the night, if she eats solids or, her own brow furrows, how the group has managed to find enough food to feed her. 

The spot against the car where Michonne had bandaged her arm is as far from the group that she can get without moving completely out of sight. She can see that her distance is unsettling to Rick, his expression torn as he spares glances over his shoulder towards her, his face still a mixture of anguish and disbelief. 

She knows that she is supposed to be his shadow, that she is supposed to be glued to his side, unable to break apart for fear that it is all a dream they are about to come crashing out of any moment. She is supposed to need to be with him, and yet, she finds herself craving solitude. She wants to be anywhere BUT with him and what is worse, knowing all of this leaves her almost paralyzed. Each thought of what she ought to feel is like a needle against the ball of her foot, like in scenes from medical dramas, Can you feel it now? How about here? 

No, doctor, it doesn’t hurt at all. 

She observes the group, her knees held carefully to her chest. She can still feel Carol’s fingertips prodding the sloppy scar that stretches across her abdomen, leaving her exposed even with her shirt now carefully tucked into place. She can smell the pot of stew that Beth and – she can’t remember the other woman’s name… - Sarah? Maybe… are cooking over the fire. She had watched Michonne empty her own bag to place the food alongside the generous pile that the group already had. When Maggie had reached for Jane’s bag Michonne had stopped her, whispering something that sent two sets of eyes towards her before the young brunette nodded and left the bag alone with its contents undisturbed. 

She is hungry for the food but even when Beth announces that it is ready, she can’t bring herself to join the group that has crowded around the pit like tiny crabs in a tank, stepping over and around one another, grabbing bowls and utensils. She watches with uncertainty and mild panic as she wonders if there will be any left for her at all. The thought flips a switch inside her that is almost primal and her stomach is suddenly turning with nerves. 

He is pawing at her hair, trying to get her to turn over so that he can access her breasts that are so full that they are throbbing, aching for her baby in a way that she will not allow her heart to. Her abdomen, barely healed, stabs as he tugs on her hip, twisting her torso until she is forced to relent and she finds herself on her back, staring up at the ceiling. 

His triumph is a deep satisfied grunt as he latches on, muttering into the soft skin of her breast, his mouth full of her. “Baby’s hungry,” he pulls back, thick white droplets sliding down his chin until they catch in the long whiskers that are like wires against her skin. 

She turns away in disgust, unable to look at him and fixes her eyes on the wall. 

“You know, Kitty, you can be a frigid little whore, sometimes,” he climbs off her, sneering in disgust and she slowly draws the scrap of her blanket up to conceal her naked chest. She keeps her eyes on the wall, but she can sense him as he moves closer until his hand finds her cheek, one finger tracing her jawline before it dips down into the hollow of her throat then lingers there on her pulsepoint. 

“If I don’t eat,” he keeps his finger there even while she turns her back to him, her cheeks hot and flushed with tears. “You don’t eat,” he finishes before retreating. She watches the shadow of the cell door as it slides closed, and listens to the jingling of his keys and the way the bolt clicks when he locks her in. “We’ll see how long your shitty little attitude lasts then.”

She holds out for long enough that she can’t even sit up anymore without her head spinning violently. Her hunger is not painful after a while, but rather like the ringing in your ears after hitting your head; a constant annoying sensation that could drive you over the edge. By the time he is sick of waiting for her to cave in, her milk has dried up completely and her stomach has hollowed, leaving her ribs jutting out and her can feel the shape of her spine clearly through the papery skin of her back. 

He slides something under the door of the cell and it takes every last ounce of her waning strength to turn over and crawl off the bed and over to the tray where she finds a canned stew mixture and some shattered crackers tossed into a pile with an individual-sized jam serving. Tearing the package open she ignores the crackers and scoops the jelly into her mouth with her shaking fingers and almost gags on its tartness. Once it is devoured she moves onto the stew that is cold in the center, but she doesn’t care. She abandons the spoon after her second mouthful and begins to use her hands, scooping up the contents of the bowl and shoving it into her mouth as fast as she can. 

Across from the cell, she knows he is watching her in the darkness – she can smell the burning tobacco in his cigarette and hear him breathing. 

It takes less than ten minutes before she is violently ill into the bowl, her stomach rejecting the sudden intake of food. She sputters on vomit and she stomach flips and turns until she is an empty quivering heap on the floor. 

“You better eat something before Carl has thirds.” Michonne is standing over her, blocking what is left of the sunlight that has begun to cast long shadows around them. “Kid’s got hollow legs or somethin’.” 

Jane accepts the bowl from her and sets it on her knees as she eyes the heaps of potatoes and some kind of meat. Michonne drops down next to her with her own serving and they both begin to eat. Their comfortable silence gives her an opportunity to continue to observe the group now that they are all together, except Daryl who has created a perch on top of a stripped school bus. 

Rick, Carl, and Carol share the bench seat, the three of them sitting close enough that their shoulders touch as they eat. Rick still had Judith, though she can’t see the little girl except for the canvas-fabric of her sun hat. They are making small talk that she can’t hear and she wonders if they are talking about her. She feels like a ghost that lingers on the periphery of their existence, no longer made for the world that she can’t seem to be able to move on from. 

“Eat,” Michonne says after a while, and she looks over at her friend to find that the other woman’s bowl is already empty. 

Looking down at her own bowl she finds that it is no longer steaming and the edges have congealed… picking at a lukewarm carrot, she keeps her eyes fixed on the back of Carl’s head. He looks like her mother, she decides, with the boxed bridge of his nose… As though he knows she is thinking about him, he turns to look over his shoulder, his hand finding the back of the seat as he cranes around. They lock eyes, both of their stares hardened. Slowly, he gets to his feet and moves over to her, his feet shuffling across the gravel, his head low. He takes a seat next to her so they are sitting three-long against the side of the scrapped vehicle. 

To keep herself busy, she stirs the contents of her bowl, her eyes fixed on the chunks of mystery meat. 

“I squeezed my eyes shut,” Carl finally says. He’s pulled his legs up, his long arms draped over his knees, his head tilted low beneath the brim of his hat. His voice surprises her again with how deep it has become. “I was supposed to make sure you didn’t come back. But I couldn’t look at you. I thou-,” he raises his eyes to meet hers and his hand moves to rest over hers, stopping her from fiddling with her spoon. “I didn’t think I’d missed. I didn’t know.”

He tells the story as though he is describing someone else’s life. The boy who’d greeted her just a handful of hours before was gone now. He held himself with a confidence that she recognized because she felt it too. 

No, doctor, it doesn’t hurt at all. I did this to myself. 

She nods, accepting the facts as they’ve been presented, and looks down to the place where his hand is resting over hers. Carefully, she slides her own free and uses it to push the hair back that has fallen over her eyes, revealing the skin along the top of her temple where a thin, white scar mars her otherwise smooth skin. A tiny imperfection that puckers her skin like purse strings. 

Carl’s eyes fix on the scar for a moment before he breathes out. “I guess I only kind of missed, huh,” he mutters, pulling his hand back from where it had been resting on the curve of her knees. “But I don’t get it… where did you go?”

“Let’s talk about it later,” Michonne jumps in and she wonders if her expression has betrayed her discomfort. 

“My mom is back from the dead and everyone is acting like it’s no big deal,” Carl pushes himself to his feet. “No one wants to talk about it and it’s bullshit.” 

Michonne puts her hand out to calm him and Jane closes her eyes to block out the dark anger in his eyes and the way his fists have balled at his sides. “No one is saying we won’t talk about it,” the other woman’s voice is cool as ever. 

“Fuck you,” her son spits and stalks away. Something clatters and she hears a series of protests from the others in the camp then the sound of Rick calling out to the boy before and awkward silence falls over all of them. 

Jane can feel all eyes land on her like hot coals, searing her skin. Pushing herself to her feet she rounds he car to escape them looking at her, through her, like they’re piercing her skin with hot needles. “Ja- Lori,” Michonne calls and after her, following closely on her heels. She is halfway back to the fence where they’d come in before the other woman hooks her arm and stops her. 

“You can’t go out there,” Michonne’s voice is perfectly even and laced with an authority that seems to settle the buzzing in Jane’s joints – messages that are telling her to flee. 

Run.

“It isn’t safe and you’re sick. You don’t have to go back there, but you need to stay here, okay?”

She looks down at the other woman’s hand, still lightly gripping the inside of her elbow. Tracing the cracks at her knuckles and the pearled pink colour of her nails she nods. Michonne is right. She can’t go out there… she doesn’t want to be alone. 

“You’re tired,” her friend releases her arm and lets her hand fall to her side, creating a distance between them, though Jane can still feel the connection buzzing between them, like spiders webs. “I’ll get your pack and you can get some sleep – I suspect the rest of them will be turning in soon too.”

Nodding again, Jane looks around the yard for a place to sleep. Her eyes settle on the bed of a torn up old Ford pick up. She crosses over to it and glances back, finding that she has a clear view of the camp from her chosen spot. Using one knee, she climbs onto the trailer hitch, and flinches as it squeaks under her weight. When Michonne returns she is already laying down, her arms folded into a makeshift pillow.   
She expects the other woman to leave after she’s set the bag down and tossed the blanket over the side, silently telling Jane that she can use it if she wants to, or not if she is feeling too confined already. Instead of leaving, however, Michonne pulls herself onto the flatbed too. 

“I’ll take first watch,” she offers, pinning her hands underneath her thighs, her chin tilted low. “You can sleep.”

The sentiment isn’t lost on Jane, and as she closes her eyes she feels something settle over her that had been absent for a long time. Even though the paint had worn off beneath her, leaving the metal exposed and rough, and she didn’t know what to do about Rick and Carl… the baby, and the world had gone to shit, she felt safe for the first time in as long as she could remember. 

XXXX

She wakes the next morning before the sun has risen. Michonne is asleep next to her, the blanket pulled over her head, completely concealing her face. Pushing herself up slowly, Jane slips off the edge of the truck and peers around the camp, barely lit by the incipient sunrise. 

Most of the others had scattered, taking up the backseats of vehicles to use as beds. She stares for a moment at the lone figure sitting by fire, a mug in one hand as he stares at the low flames licking a mostly ashen log. She approaches slowly, warily, and takes a seat in a plastic lawn chair. 

“Sleep okay?” Rick asks without lifting his eyes from the flames. She watches the orange and red glow flicker in the mirrors of his eyes. He clears his throat after a moment and then sits back as though his body is made of uncompromising concrete – heavy, like he’d crumble of he moved the wrong way, pushed the limits a little too far. “I slept like shit,” he admits, his voice filled with dark humour as he runs his hands over the black denim covering his thighs. “Jesus.”

She looks down at her own hands folded in her lap, unsure of what he is looking for from her. The irony isn’t lost on her… after so many years of begging him to talk to her she is suddenly the mute and he desperate for even a word. When she finally looks up he’s watching her intensely, but she doesn’t whither under his gaze. 

“You left me,” he says after a while. “It’s all I keep thinking… all I’ve been thinking, Lori. Why didn’t she fight harder? Why didn’t she just hold out until we got there? And here you are…. And I’m still wondering the same damn thing because I don’t know what to think. Where the hell were you?” 

He’s on his feet in a split second and across the camp in another, his feet crunching on the gravel beneath his boots. “I was too late… you let me think I was too late.”

His voice is barely above a whisper. She wants to tell him that she didn’t let him think anything at all. Instead, she buries her head in her hands, feeling totally unequipped for the battle he is waging. Honeymoon’s over, she thinks dryly. 

The thought has barely crossed her mind before hands close around her wrists and pull them back, forcing her to look up him. When she does, there are tears welling in his eyes but holding firmly there, as though they’ve hardened into crystals, the reflection of flames dancing in them. She wants to wrench her hands and shove him away, every muscle in her body is twitching to break free from his grasp but instead she holds his stare, her chest rising and falling like a balloon full to bursting. 

“I saw… there was a Walker and your,” his voice breaks as his eyes rise to the cropped ends of her hair that barely touch her shoulders. Releasing one of her wrists he reaches up to touch the uneven ends. “It was in his mouth and his stomach…”

She shakes her head No, knowing that it doesn’t contain any of the information he is looking for. She wants to tell him about the other man who’d been there that day, who’d been murdered in cold blood, she didn’t remember most of it, but he’d told her about his companion who’d taken refuge with him in the tunnels after the prison’s collapse. He’d traded his life for hers… and his identity too it seemed. 

Her mind is like a bag of yarn, tangled and messy and she can’t seem to figure out where the ends are and how to tell him what he wants to know. 

She hears a throat clear behind her and she turns to find Daryl and Carol standing shoulder to shoulder on the other side of the fire pit. She sees Carol’s eyes slide to Rick’s hand still clamped around her wrist and she slowly eases herself free from his grasp. 

“Best be gettin’ moving,” Daryl’s voice is low and it takes a moment for Rick to nod, his eyes dropping her own, making her feel somehow lighter without his gaze pressing into her. “Seems quiet out there for now.”

When Rick doesn’t respond Carol pipes in. “We’ll start waking people then.” Her grey eyes linger on Lori for a moment, inviting her to join her, which is tempting, but she knows better. Instead, she folds her arms around herself again so that they are no longer available to the man across from her. Carol nods, very lightly, her mouth a tight line that seems neutral, but the tiny squint of her eyes gives her away – the invitation is still open. 

When they’re alone again she turns back to Rick. 

“You’re different,” he scratches his beard that has grown so long that it conceals the boyish dimples that she knows are beneath it. 

She feels her eyebrow twitch as she absorbs his words, her eyes tracing his too-long hair and the new wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. 

He chuckles and the ice that has frozen over his eyes melts revealing soft pools of blue that tell her he is still in there somewhere – the awkward boy who’d shown up on her parents’ doorstep with a bag full of dirty clothes one summer, dwarfed next to her linebacker brother. The memory startles her; it’d been so long since she had allowed herself to think about before. Maybe if he is still in there, she is too. 

The moment lasts such a short time that when it is over she wonders if it has happened at all except that she can taste mama’s sweet tea and smell of bellflowers and foxgloves as fingers tickle the cotton hem of her dress… 

Winter has settled over his eyes again as he turns away and back to the fire. “Hell, aren’t we all.”


	9. Chapter Nine

They have two vehicles ready to go, a flatbed pickup truck with a large towing hitch and company moving van with its back seats pulled out. Jane eyes the flatbed and silently claims the spot next to the wheel-well, deciding that she'd prefer to risk the exposure than have to sit in the cramped, enclosed van. The group moves quickly as they collect their supplies and organize themselves while Beth and Tyreese prepare breakfast over the low fire. She works quietly, folding blankets into waterproof tarp bags and tying them off before lifting the large load and delivering it to Carol, who is packing the back of the van.

Carol motions for her to climb up with her before turning back to the supplies that she has stacked neatly against the front bench seat. Looking around the camp, she finds Michonne with Carl over by the flatbed, engrossed in what appears to be a debate of some kind. The boy's indignant features have the other woman barely hiding her amusement. An unexpected twinge of jealousy sends a pang through her as she wonders again how well Michonne knows the rest of the group.

Turning back to the van she sees that Carol has settled back on her calves and is looking at her, a question resting on her features, her mouth formed and frozen around a word. After a moment the other woman shakes her head and her lips tighten back into a straight line. "Never mind."

Suddenly feeling acutely and uncomfortably aware of herself, Jane crosses her arms over her chest in an act of self-preservation. Carol has a way of seeing right through her. Maybe it was from the long months they spent practically attached to one-another at the hip, or maybe it was something else… Carol had lived for years under a violent and abusive man and she was a survivor.

"We'll split the water between the two vehicles, and the jerry cans can go on the back of the truck," the short-haired woman finally says, giving Jane an opening to excuse herself. Jane accepts and goes to collect the fuel.

Beth and Tyreese serve up beans and eggs to go in scorched flatbread. She is last to get her food – the man seems kind enough but his large stature immediately sets her on edge. So she waits until Beth is free to approach the fire pit, her own bag set carefully over her shoulder. She barely meets the man's eyes before she skirts around the other side of the chairs, aware that Beth is watching her curiously.

"I'll bet you're hungry," the young woman says, holding out a portion wrapped in newspaper. She offers Jane a warm but nervous smile. "It's just leftover chilli with some powdered eggs," she mutters, laying the package in Lori's hand. "But protein… so it will help you heal up just fine."

Brow pinching, she wonders what Beth is referring to, and her eyes slip to Michonne who is climbing into the back of the van. She wonders how much the other woman has told them… Beth's eyes widen and she shakes her head, "I didn't mean anythin' in particular," she clarifies, pursing her lips. "It's just… yesterday, Michonne… well, you were there."

When Michonne cleaned and dressed the wounds on her back. She nods with understanding, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Okay, well…" Beth offers her a final sweet smile. "I better finish up here…" she motions to the fire where Tyreese has laid their food aside and had begun packing up the cookware.

Leaving them to it, Jane heads for the pickup, her eyes settled on the spot she'd picked out. Suddenly, her path is obstructed and she stops short of her destination, taking a step back from where Rick has intercepted her. "Come sit in the van," he requests, bumping Judith a bit higher on his side. Lori inspects the baby, who'd been given a washcloth to chew on, and she wonders if she is cutting teeth.

"I remembered… from Carl," Rick uses the cloth to wipe the baby's chin. "Come."

She nods reluctantly and follows him to the van, eyeing with longing the truck where Michonne has taken her planned seat. Following Rick, she figures maybe if she rolls the window down, it won't be so bad to have to sit inside the van.

She slips into her seat and is surprised when Rick deposits the baby on the lap. Floundering, she secures the little girl in place by holding her under her arms. The baby looks up at her curiously for a moment before turning her attention back to the cloth – satisfied with himself, Rick shuts the door and makes his way around the back of the van. In the rear-view mirror she watches him stop to talk to Daryl, whom she assumes will be driving the other vehicle. Behind her Carl, Carol, Beth, Maggie, and Glenn occupy the back of the van and she can hear them talking quietly over her shoulder. Looking down at the baby on her lap then back at the mirror she is dismayed by how long Rick is taking.

Carefully, she slides the baby onto the seat beside her, but keeps her in place with one arm while she reaches over to open the passenger window, desperate for some fresh air. It is a manual window so it takes her some time to crank it until it is almost completely open. Beside her, the baby is playing with her fingers, but she can't bring herself to look over at the little girl's blue eyes that match her father's, or the small bow shaped mouth closed around the cloth… she won't go there. It all goes away too quickly.

What are you dreaming about, kitty?

"I got her," Beth offers, reaching over to scoop the baby from the seat. "Come on, sweetie, let's get you some water."

They both disappear and Jane is relieved to be on her own for a moment to collect herself before Rick comes back. Her food lays abandoned on the seat next to her, half-crushed by the baby's bottom, but she retrieves it anyway just as the driver's side door pops open and Rick slides in beside her. She doesn't miss the disappointment that settles over his features when his eyes fall on her empty lap. Turning away from him, she scowls out the window – she is in the goddamn van, isn't that enough for him?

The seat next to her squeaks and she can hear voices murmuring behind her, but she blocks them out and keeps her eyes on the now abandoned camp site. The engine turns over a chortles before it starts up.

"We're going to Florida," Rick tells her, guiding the vehicle towards the gate where Abraham is waiting. She watches the large, muscular man pull the pin-latch free and haul the gate on its rails, his biceps flexing. "Michonne said that you met Jake too, so I guess you already know."

The street outside looks clear enough so she decides that it will be fine to leave her window open for now. Sinking her teeth into her breakfast she hears Rick sigh next to her, and she realizes that she hasn't acknowledged that he'd spoken. She can't bring herself to turn back to him, knowing his disappointment about the baby, so she keeps watch as he makes a left onto the main road and opens her view up to farmland. She tosses the rest of her breakfast out the window, her appetite lost.

"We've been North, as far as Washington," his low voice continues eventually, and she glances at the truck in the mirror, following closely behind them.

And?

"We've run into some people on the way… some decent, others-" he breaks off and the space between them falls silent again. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes she sees that he is white-knuckling the steering wheel and she knows his jaw is ticking with frustration – she can feel it coming off him in waves. She wants to get out of the vehicle as her fingers wring themselves around each other on her lap, itching to reach for the door handle. "Well, I guess you probably already know."

She wonders if somehow this is his way of bridging the gap between them. She bites her lower lip to hold back a scoff, feeling indignant. It isn't a competition, she'd sure they've all been to hell and back but she doubts her knows the half of what it is like to be so thoroughly hunted, violated, stripped, trapped like an animal.

"What I said back there, I had no right," he mutters, pulling the visor down to block out the creeping sunlight that pours over the open farmland around them, reflecting off tin roofs and parched white grass. His voice drops in volume and she catches him glancing in the mirror, aware that they are not alone. "It was irrational to blame you," he confesses. "And I don't, okay?"

This time she nods, though she knows that it is small consolation. They fall into silence again and she leans back against her seat. Rick doesn't try to make anymore conversation and she appreciates the silence. She watches the landscape roll by and farms turn into forest until they hit the highway. It is clear except for a few discarded cars that are dusty heaps littering the shoulders of the road. She figures they have been driving for over and hour when she is greeted by a marching line of cars that stretch as far as she can see on the six-lane concrete track. It is getting hard to breathe in the vehicle, even with the window cracked and she is glad when Rick starts to break.

"Shit," Rick rolls the van to a slow stop and before killing the engine. She uses the opportunity to stretch her legs and slips out of the vehicle as the back doors groan open and settle back on their hinges. The others file out onto the road, stretching out their limbs and she catches Glenn massaging the small of Maggie's back. Turning away from them she eyes the pile up of vehicles and checks for any movement.

"Let's refuel and see if there is anything useful. Keep an eye out for food for Judith," Rick orders before catching her eyes. "If you don't want to-," his arm gestures to the dense roadblock. Taking a step back from the dispersing group, she shrugs and heads toward the closest vehicle, a minivan. She can feel Rick watching her as she busies herself with opening back – the vehicle is empty and smells musty when she kneels on the bumper to peer over the backseat. There isn't anything of much use except for a bottle of aspirin, which she slides into her pocket. Leaving the rest of the more personal items, she slips back to her feet.

She avoids the others and weaves her way through the vehicles until she spots Carl on his own. The lanky teenager is digging through bags that have been tossed into a hatchback and is sorting some items into a backpack. Biting her lip, she considers going over to him, but she is anxious that he'll be angry, or that she'll somehow make everything worse. Her decision is made when he looks over at her, his face void of any emotion.

When he holds something out, she swallows and approaches him to accept what she finds is a can of peaches. "You still like those?" he asks, turning to half-sit on the bumper of the car. She watches him settle his stance before turning her eyes to the label.

"Judith likes them," Carl finally says, clearing his throat. "A lot."

She nods and moves to hand them back to him, but stops when he raises his hand, the same look of disappointment on his features that had crossed Rick's earlier. Blowing out a long breath, she slips the can into her own bag and moves to look over his shoulder at the remaining bags. Carl falls into place at her side and starts examining the bags again. "They had a lot of stuff, maybe they stole it from other people."

She nods in agreement. Maybe.

"I'm glad you're here," he adds. "Even though it's kind of messed up."

XXXX

They decide to pull back and try to find another way around the highway. She gets back into the passenger seat dutifully, and watches Rick slip a pair of aviators on. It's hot enough that the seatbelt latch burns her every time it connect with the back of her arm, and the air is muggy and thick. The baby is whining in the back and she hears Beth humming to her and Carl's low voice pitched down into a whisper as he gets a poker lesson from Glenn and Maggie. Rick has begun to guide the car around and they bounce into the ditch that separates the northbound lanes from the south. Her shirt is sticking to her back uncomfortably and she can feel the tape adhesive coming loose each time she moves.

Drowsy from the heat, she slides down in her seat and catches Rick watching her out of the corner of his eye as he approaches the off ramp. "Tired?" he asks, turning his eyes back to the road. Luckily it seems to be pretty clear for the most part.

She nods, looking up at him for a moment then back out the window. They drive for a few moments before making the first left that takes them onto a strip of road that is straddled by rows of hotels and restaurants. Most of the cars have been pushed off onto the sidewalks so she figures they aren't the first group to move through the area.

She notes the Walkers that wander nearby – they're mostly catatonic or distracted by the sun reflecting off door handles and pieces of broken glass on the pavement. She doesn't see anything that she would consider an immediate threat, but she moves her machete to her lap nonetheless.

"You know how to use that thing?" Rick asks as they both look down at her weapon.

Nodding, she glances up to the catch and amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Never figured you for a melee girl, is all," he shrugs lightly. "All you carried was that little colt detective for a long time. We've still got it around here somewhere... Carol's been using it."

She'd given up on guns quickly after being out on her own. They were too loud and it was too hard to come by ammo.

"Are you hurt? Your, uh, throat, or something?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

Or something…

Shh, Kitty, not a fucking word or I'll slit your fucking throat…

"It's okay," Rick reaches out; his hand finding hers where she'd lifted it to bridge across the ridge of her clavicles protectively.

She lets his hand stay there for a moment, barely touching her. When she takes his fingers in her own and lowers them to her lap, she is sure to be the one holding him. His hands are rougher than she remembers, with dirt seemingly ingrained in the calluses on the pads of his fingers and the heel of his palm. She finds the scar that spans along his heart line, an old wound from installing the furnace in their first house.

Suddenly there is a honk from behind that startles them both, breaking them out of the trance that they'd seem to have fallen into. The car swerves as Rick realizes he had been drifting off the shoulder and he corrects it jerkily until he finds the center of the road again. "Fuck," he mutters as they hear scrambling in the back and the baby crying again.

"Everything okay up there?" Glenn asks from over her shoulder and she looks to Rick who is somehow pale and flushed at the same time.

"Yeah," Rick answers, pushing the hand she'd been holding through his hair, his eyes now firmly planted on the road ahead. She watches him carefully, trying to get a read on him and it isn't long until she catches the twitch of his mouth and he chuckles. "That was close."

Turning to look out her own window she almost smiles too.

XXXX

It is late by the time Rick eases the car off the road and turns to look at her, his expression worn. "I think we'll turn in for the night," he whispers, turning off the engine. In the cabin she hears someone shift for the first time in hours, and she looks over her shoulder to find that the others have gone to sleep, tangled up around one another. She spots Carl and the baby in the spot closest to the back of Rick's seat, the little girl curled into her brother's shoulder.

"You might want to close yo-," he motions to the window but is interrupted by a soft tap on his own door. They both peer out into the darkness where Daryl is lighting a cigarette, the flame from his Zippo illuminating his face.

"Mosquitoes," Rick says, glancing at her window again before slipping out of the car, the overhead light suddenly illuminating the cabin. It goes dark again when his door clicks closed. Popping open her own door, she slides out to find the ground beneath her soft and damp. Rolling her window up, she glances around in the darkness, listening to the sounds of crickets and wildlife, she knows they are near water because she hears something splashing. She quickly rounds the vehicle to join the huddled group of adults.

"Hey, girl," Michonne falls into step beside her. "You good?"

They hadn't had much chance to see each other all day, except for during bathroom breaks and pit stops. Jane nods, sliding her hands into her pockets.

"Haven't seen a Walker for miles," Carol is saying when they reach the others.

Daryl grunts, blowing out a steady stream of smoke that drifts upwards, "maybe gators," he suggests. "Gotta be as far as Florida by now."

"Yeah, I'd say that's a pretty good guess," Rick nods, looking around them until his gaze settles on something over her shoulder. She turns to follow his sightline and her eyes settle on a sign for a B&B. "May as well check it out."

Daryl grunts and tosses what is left of his cigarette to the ground at his feet and Jane curls her nose at the smell of burning tobacco. She carefully extinguishes it with her boot when the group moves towards the two-story house. Pulling her weapon out, she catches Rick watching her and she lifts an eyebrow.

"Nothing, thought you might have decided to stay back," he is watching the way her fingers twist around the handle of her machete. She shrugs in response, figuring it is a fair enough assumption based on the way things used to be. But they aren't the way anymore. She wants to make sure the house is secure enough to stay the night and she wants to see it first-hand.

Rick nods, "Okay then," he pulls his python out from its holster. "You can stay with me then."

She rolls her eyes as his order – she's already decided she's going around back before his words are out. If they are going to stay together she figures he better be prepared to go her way.

Eyes straining in the dark, she inspects the white mossy house with its peeling shutters and large French double-doors. It looks secured, which she hasn't decided if that is a good thing or not just yet. They reach the foot of the handful of stairs that lead to the porch. From there she cuts left, tracing the flagstones that are half-sunken into the damp earth beneath her feet. The first one wobbles and then sinks in when she steps on it.

"Lori," Rick's voice is a hushed whisper that makes her cringe when it cuts through the night, above the chirping crickets and critters rustling in the overgrown woods around them.

Holding up her hand to quiet him, she listens hard to figure out if he'd drawn any unwanted attention.

"I'll go with her," Michonne says and she hears the steps creak as the group shuffles. Keeping her eyes locked on the walkway, she hears Rick say something about sticking together, but she ignores the comment. If he wants to stick together, he can follow her around back.

She feels Michonne's arm brush hers as the other woman falls into step next to her and they make their way together down the narrow path that leads to the back of the house. There is a hot tub beneath a looming gazebo off at the end of the yard, barely lit by – she freezes – small lights that line a bricked pathway. She turns to Michonne and finds the woman's dark eyes settled on the glowing lights. Maybe the house isn't unoccupied after all.

"Solar powered," Michonne breathes and Jane takes a closer look, finding the tiny panels. They both breathe a sigh of relief. Deciding a little bit of light wouldn't be unappreciated, Jane pulls on the closest stake and retrieves the light, sliding it out of the ground. They take the steps and listen – they can still hear the others around the front, trying to open the front door.

The back door is a simple single track slider that Jane has seen a thousand times. Stepping forward she hands her machete to Michonne. It doesn't take much to pry the door upwards. She uses the stake on the light to tilt the door and wiggles it until she hears the latch release from the bracket and she is able to slide the panel open.

The takes her blade back from Michonne and enters the house first. Already she knows they aren't alone – she sniffs, confirming that the shuffling from somewhere further inside isn't from anyone that has been alive for a long time. The lower level is open concept, allowing her to see through to the front where the others are waiting to be let in. Rick reaches for the knob expectantly.

She doesn't have time to cross the room before the shuffling isn't so far away anymore as rasping figures appear in the hall closest to her. She calculates that it will take too long to make it to the door, so she blocks out the sound of Rick's hand jiggling the door handle again and his palm connecting with the glass window.

The first Walker goes down easy – she takes the large man on with little struggle as her blade slips through his forehead like butter. She wonders if it was the moisture in the air making them soft. Michonne has led two other stumbling figures back towards the kitchen area where she can use the length of her blade to her advantage. Jane figures she can handle herself, so she concentrates on the remaining two, severing ones arm before it can reach her, its dismembered limb falling to the ground with a thud. Disoriented, the woman falls to the side and Jane takes off her other arm too before driving her foot into the Walkers chest, forcing it backwards and head over heels as it collides with a hutch.

She hears glass smash behind her but she is busy, her heart pounding as her eyes settle on the spot between the eyes of the Walker before her – a teenage girl. She doesn't hesitate as she uses its own unsteady gait and momentum to let it fall forward onto her blade, its flailing limbs instantly going still as it slides into a heap of loose flesh and mulchy bones.

The house is silent now except for the sounds of ragged breaths and Daryl crushing the skull of the Walker she'd dismembered as he retrieves his arrow. Suddenly, fingers are wrapped around her bicep like a vice and she turns, startled, raising her weapon in self-defence. The blade is just inches from Rick's forehead when his other hand catches her wrist, holding her in place. Jerking, she tries to pull away, suddenly and irrationally angry that he is touching her – gripping her. He holds fast, leaning in until his face is so close to hers that he can feel her breath on her cheek – it is coming in harsh gasps as though he is barely in control.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demands. "You could have been killed!" he gives her arm a shake that makes her lose her grip on her weapon and she hears it clatter to the floor and then nothing else but a buzzing in her ears loud enough to drown out whatever Michonne is saying as she begins to come between them. And then Daryl is there too and she realizes she is fighting again, clawing at Rick's fingers that are still clamped around her wrist like handcuffs.

They are yelling something but she can't hear it because all she can think is that she needs to get him off her. Michonne's hands are covering Rick's, trying to peel back his fingers and he is fighting with Daryl too, who has fallen into place behind him and is tugging, his arms wrapped around Rick's chest. Instinctively, she lifts her knee and sinks it into his balls and she is instantly free, her chest heaving as she watches with satisfaction as he stumbles backwards, doubled over.

He looks up at her, pain and betrayal etched across his features but she doesn't care. She just wants to be away from him and everyone else. Stomping out back she paces the yard, her limbs trembling so hard that she isn't sure how she is still standing. She sputters on her uneven breaths as her lungs burn from lack of oxygen, but she can't sit down because she is sure her heart will tear straight through her chest if she doesn't stop moving, if she doesn't find something to – reaching down she picks up the closest flagstone and launches it across the yard and into the side of the hot tub which dents easily.

She picks up another stone and throws it too, this time hitting one of the posts that hold up the gazebo. All out of anything nearby to through she sinks to her knees and gulps for air.

XXXX

When she eventually looks up she finds Michonne sitting stoically on the back steps, her hands pressed between her thighs as she waits. Ashamed, Jane looks at the wrecked side of the hot tub and gazebo.

"Not like anyone was using it anyway," her friend finally says. "You good now?"

Jane shakes her head, not really sure if she can answer that question honestly. She is pissed at Rick still, but even more so humiliated and ashamed that about her reaction towards him. On a surface level she knows he'd never hurt her, but there are a lot more levels than just that one – sometimes more of them than she can count.

"It'll be forgotten by morning," Michonne says after a moment, standing. Jane's eyes fall to her toes that are bare and curled over the edge of the step. "Let's head in."

Reluctant, but aware that she will have to face the other's eventually, Jane pushes herself up. Despite the low buzzing of her anxious thoughts that are irritating like house flies, her body is weary. She needs to rest and she needs to pull off her bandages that are barely clinging to her skin, making her back feel itchy and irritated.

She crosses her arms and follows Michonne inside. The corpses have been removed from the downstairs and Daryl has created a bed for himself on the couch, his muddy boots propped up on one arm. She doesn't see Carl, Beth, or Judith when she glances around the space.

"Come on," Michonne indicates the stairs with her chin before leading the way. Jane follows her slowly, inspecting the room further but doesn't see Rick either.

They hit the top landing and start down a long hall with doors on either side. They pass several of the rooms before Michonne leads her into a small room with a large bed. "Home sweet home," the other woman mutters, heading over to the bed where a large medical kit is waiting. "Let's get this over with and then get some sleep. It's been a long day for everyone and I for one would like to put it the hell behind me."

Jane nods in agreement, heading over to the window. She keeps her back to the room and Michonne and peels her shirt off, wincing at a spot where she has to tear it away from her skin. She wonders if the wounds will ever heal.

"We'll leave it uncovered," her friend says when Jane moves to find something else to put on.

Self-conscious, but not up for a debate, Jane pushes her own shoes off and makes her way over to the bed, using her crossed arms to cover her breasts. She slips under the sheets and immediately turns onto her stomach, burying her face into her pillow. The fabric is stale but the pillow is comfortable.

The alcoholic is cold and it stings viciously when Michonne begins to clean the wounds. Twisting her fingers around the sheets she holds her breath, waiting for it to pass. They don't talk, both seemingly out of anything to say as the night fills the space around them and insects buzz and chirp so loudly that they can be heard through the closed windows.

True to her word, Michonne leaves the cleaned wounds uncovered and the humid air does nothing to ease her discomfort or the burning pain that is unyielding. Eventually the other woman lays down on the other side of the bed, propped up against the headboard. "He'll get over it," she says quietly.

Turning her back to the center of the bed, Jane pulls the sheets to her throat and holds them there, staring at the unfamiliar room.


	10. Chapter Ten

It is still dark when she wakes, gasping for breath, having been launched from a nightmare that is fading faster than she can remember it. Next to her, Michonne is asleep on her back, her arm flung over her face to cover her eyes. She watches the other woman’s chest rise and fall with even breaths and waits for sleep to reclaim her. After a few moments she realizes she is wide awake and her joints are buzzing with anxiety and an energy that is almost uncomfortable. Slipping out from under the sheet, she retrieves her shirt and pulls it over her head, wincing as the movement stretches and tears the fresh skin that had healed over her wounds while she slept. 

She can hear the soft cry of the baby from elsewhere in the house that grow louder as she pads through the shadowy hallways and descends the stairs into the living room. She finds Carol sitting in the armchair with red-faced baby squirming on her lap, the little girl’s features crumpled into an angry pout. 

“Everything okay?” Carol asks, turning the baby to rest against her shoulder, tilting her head away from a flailing balled first that still manages to brush her cheek.

Jane shrugs and moves to collect a pair of shoes from next to the door, deciding that she needs air. The house is stifling and oppressive around her with its looming shadows and windows that appear barred by the thick trees that close in on it. She isn’t sure whose boots she is slipping on, and they are a bit big, but she figures it wouldn’t matter – she just needs them for a minute. 

Carol clears her throat and when Jane looks up she finds that the baby is settling now, cradled into the crook of the woman’s arm, her hands splayed across her belly while she is fed from a small bottle. “Daryl’s out there somewhere… thought you’d like to know so he doesn’t startle you.”

She watches the other woman in the dark for a moment and knows that she is thinking about what had happened earlier with Rick. She wonders if Carol thinks she is a threat to the group. Hell, maybe she is… Maybe it was better when she wasn’t around. Dropping her eyes again to the drowsy baby, she nods, retrieving her machete that someone had propped up against the front door frame. 

She has sweated through her top before she even reaches the end of the path. It is so humid that it is hard to breathe the moist heavy air around her and she wishes she could be anywhere else. She remembers how simple things had been those first few days since her escape from the prison. 

Run. Eat. Sleep. 

The primary needs had been enough to distract her from anything else. She had been able to suppress everything for so long that she’d forgotten how much there was inside her, held in place by denial or anger… whatever it was she wished she could just go back there and not have to deal with Rick or Carl, or the seemingly endless list of things people expected her to be doing.   
She sees him before he sees her. His shadowy figure seated on the hood of the pickup, his feet propped up on the front bumper. She watches the glow of the tip of a cigarette as he inhales and she breathes in the smell of tobacco. Something splashes in the water nearby and she peers around in the dark, but sees nothing. 

“Boar maybe… maybe a ‘gator,” Daryl mutters, taking another drag of his cigarette before offering it to her. She is tempted but declines with a light shake of her head, bracing her palms against the hood of the pickup. “Nah?” he squeezes the tip of the butt with his fingers to extinguish it before tucking what is left into his shirt pocket. “I figured with the weird rogue GI Jane shit you got goin’ on I wouldn’ hafta ask twice.”

Lifting a shoulder she, pushes away from the vehicle, wondering why the hell Daryl Dixon was trying to peer pressure her into developing a tobacco habit. Besides, she figured that any cigarette would be stale by this point anyway. No point in picking up a habit if it wasn’t even going to be satisfying. 

She leaves Daryl behind her and steps off the road, squinting at the dark underbrush and plants that are as high as her waist. Fern blades swish against her pant legs as she pushes her way through overgrown plants, following the sounds of owls calling out into the night and thousands of insects clicking and ticking around her. She can smell stale water and she knows the mosquitoes are probably eating her alive, she can hear them buzzing in her ears as they get too close. She knows Daryl is following her, but the man keeps his distance so she lets him have his way as she picks her way down to the water, the steady chirp of crickets a creaking of frogs creating a concert like nothing she’d ever heard before. 

The sun is rising, though she can barely see the sky through the canopy of hanging moss above her. The forest is changing colour though, from black to a light navy before her eyes. 

There is a scattering of broken branches that pierce the silence, disrupting the symphony of insects that had lulled in her into a sense of peace. Freezing, she pulls her machete free and moves her hand over the grip until it is settled snugly into her palm. 

Something darts through the shadows to her right, colourless and shapeless in her periphery. She turns quickly to follow it but is frozen by the click of Daryl’s crossbow and the zipping sound of an arrow slicing the air before a bush erupts with squeals that make the hair on her arms and the back of her neck rise. Daryl is already pushing past her towards the sound, muttering a laundry list of profanities as he stomps through the ferns. She follows closely, already having deduced that it is a boar long before she is helping Daryl to drag the still squirming, squealing thing out from the underbrush. 

Daryl is saying something that she can’t hear over the sounds of the pig’s squeals and she realizes that the damn thing is probably drawing every walker for miles. Shoving Daryl back, she doesn’t hesitate before driving her blade into its throat, silencing it instantly. She twists the machete for good measure and holds the boar in place while she waits for the life to drain from it, warm blood coating her hands in a smooth, crimson river. The woods around them seem to have gone completely still, and she can hear Daryl’s breath over her shoulder, his eyes settled onto her back like weights. 

She draws her blade back slowly, aware that she is being observed, and retrieves his arrow from the thing’s belly. 

They work together to butcher the boar, taking as much meat as they need before they drag what is left down to the waters edge for the gators. They work in silent tandem, and are finished before the sun is up. She carries their breakfast back, the meat cradled across her bear forearms, while Daryl keeps a watch, bringing up the rear. 

“Pretty badass,” he mutters when they arrive back at the house. The blood on her arms is starting to feel sticky and she is sure she looks like something from a slasher flick. They pause at the gate and she turns to face him, hesitant about going inside in her current state. If they think she is danger to the group already, what will they think when she turns up looking like Carrie on prom night? 

Daryl seems to be thinking the same thing as he inspects her clothes, and then his own. He doesn’t seem concerned about it before long before he takes the raw boar from her and starts inside. “They ain’t gonna be complainin’ when they’re all eatin’ bacon.” 

Sighing, she wipes her hands off on her pants and follows him inside. 

XXXX

When the others wake, she and Daryl already have the pork on a spit over a low flame in the backyard. Sitting on the steps that lead down to the garden, she picks at the balled fabric on Glenn’s borrowed shirt sleeve and watches Carol soaking a bucket of laundry nearby. 

“If you’re going to be Daryl’s official hunting partner, you’re both taking over laundry duty,” the grey-haired woman gripes under her breath good humouredly. When she looks up, her impish features are settled into a small smile. Casting her eyes away, Jane goes back to watching the flames licking the meat and the fat bubbling on the stones beneath it. 

Later, they spend their morning eating, cleaning up, and preparing for the rest of the drive. Rick is confident that if they take shifts they can get to the coast by sundown. She takes her time gathering her things collecting and useful items from around the house: knives, painkillers, matches… When she makes it to the car most of the others are waiting, and Rick looks surprised when she gets into the vehicle next to him. She’d spent the morning avoiding him, partially in embarrassment for what had happened the previous night. But also because she doesn’t want to hear him tell her it is okay or whatever else; it had been a long time since everything was okay. Part of her almost craves his hatred or indifference… maybe that would be easier than whatever it is they’re doing now. 

She watches the scenery flip by her faster than her eyes can focus on it. Curled up on the seat next to Rick, she props her cheek up on her hand, her forehead resting against the window. If they drive along the shoulder the road is bumpy and almost jarring, but they can clear the abandoned cars more easily than trying to weave through them. The constantly jostling and bouncing around keeps setting the baby off, and she can hear the others passing her around in the back, taking turns trying to ease her tantrums. Rick doesn’t say anything other than to curse under his breath every now and then. 

“Shit,” he mutters suddenly, slamming on the breaks and Jane’s eyes fly forward to see what he is responding to. The vehicle in front of them had come to a sudden stop and she drops her feet to the floor and braces her hands against the dash as they skid to a stop, just barely touching the truck’s bumper. There is commotion in the back and she hears a variety of expletives and clattering objects. 

Catching her breath, Jane peers over the car in front of them to see why their convoy had come to such a sudden stop. Rick wordlessly slides out of the vehicle and she moves to follow him but is stilled by a crisp order of, “Wait here,” before he slams his door. 

It takes her only a second to decide that she won’t be complying, and she gets out to join the others who have gathered around the front of the other vehicle. “Ain’t no big deal, we’ll just switch ‘em out. Got a whole’ junk yard right here,” Daryl mutters, indicating the highway with his chin. Following their line of sight to the two blown out tires on the front of the truck, she cringes. It could take a bit of time to clear change out the two tires.. “Better question is what did y’all hit.”

Glenn pulls off his baseball cap with a groan and tosses it onto the hood of the truck. “A freakin’ piece of sheet metal or something…”

“Couldn’t’a gone around it?” Daryl asks, looking past the tires to where there is a torn up and flattened duct or something on the ground. 

“Alright,” Rick steps in, holding up his hand. “We’ll do a sweep for supplies. Glenn and Daryl, you guys get these tires switched out.” He breaks away from the group and heads back towards the van where they can all hear Judith wailing. “Let’s get it done fast. Don’t wanna get caught out here.”

She moves back towards the van too, her eyes on the ground, mindful of the sharp metal that is scattered like razors under her feet. Collecting a bag from the front seat, she looks into the back where Rick is taking Judith from Beth, his hands sliding under the baby’s bottom and around the back of her head to cradle her skull. She is stiff in his arms and trembling slightly as he guides her head to rest against his shoulder and takes her blanket.   
He looks up to meet her eyes for just a second and for the first time since finding him she sees nothing there. No questions and no answers. Just a placid expression before he turns his attention back to the baby. 

She is shaken by the exchange and not sure why. Maybe it is the sudden change in his mood that reminds her of the long winter before finding the prison. Maybe it is something else… maybe it is because she is realizing that she isn’t the only one who has changed – become colder. 

Stepping back from the van, she steps around the others who have split off to do different tasks. Most are working on removing the sharp metal from the side of the road to clear the pathway before they lose another tire. Moving away from them she goes off on her own to search for supplies in the abandoned cars that are packed tightly together on the highway. 

Her bag is getting heavy with food and clothing when she suddenly feels something clamp onto her shoulder. Before she can spin around she is forced to the ground, her mouth covered by a large sticky palm.

“Shh,” the voice is thick and low. “Keep your head down.” Tyreese. “Walkers.” 

She knows this story. She has been here before. Before the farm, before everything fell apart with Shane and Rick. The man releases his hold on her and she slips her bag over her shoulder to find her weapon, belted to her waist, and she frees the blade. She is acutely aware of the silence of their group and the growing sound of the herd, but she can’t pinpoint where they are coming from. The sounds of rasping and groaning, shuffling dragging feet, seems to surround them. 

Tyreese is already moving, his head low, crouched. Following on his heels she realizes they are making their way back towards the van and the rest of group. She just hopes the vehicles are ready for them to start moving again. 

They are barely at the edge of the highway when commotion erupts and there are a series of gunshots. The baby starts screaming and she freezes, the hair on the back of her neck rising. Her gut instinct is to run, but they are close enough now that she can see what has set everything off. Her eyes fly to Rick who is yanking the side door of the van open, Judith still in his arms, firing at more than a dozen Walkers who are quickly approaching along the side of the vehicle. She barely has time to react before she is tumbling, shoved forward from behind and then the world slows down until she can’t hear anything. 

Tyreese is screaming, his dark eyes like coal and filled with shock and agony, his teeth rows of perfect white, exposed as his head tilts back exposing his neck to the Walker who is sinking his teeth into his jugular from behind, sprawled across his back. Quickly pushing herself away from the scene she gets to her feet and freezes, her eyes darting between the empty tree line and back towards Rick who is helping Carl and Beth out of the front seat of the van where they are crushing themselves against the windshield, trying desperately to avoid the long rotting fingers that are reaching them from over the backseat. The van is overrun… 

She doesn’t have to think twice before she is running towards them as fast as her legs will move. She feels like jelly all over and her heart is pounding against her ribs, making it hard to breathe, if she is breathing at all. It feels like it all happens in an instant, first she is at Rick’s side and then in front of him, swinging her blade at the faceless Walkers that look like an endless heaving wall: toneless, silent. She hacks at skulls, necks, long arms that reach for her, ignoring them as soon as they go down at her feet – but there are too many and they keep coming… and then she is being pulled away, fingers gripping her forearm and it takes no more than that to make her run. She is on Beth’s heels, Carl still gripping onto her arm and she isn’t sure in that moment who is leading who as thin branches whip their cheeks and she closes her eyes to protect them to look through the slits of her eyelids but she doesn’t stop. 

They eventually start to slow, their endurance failing and she is aware of a strange sound that she has never heard before. Turning her head, she finds that Rick has slowed to a slow job too and she locates the sound, the baby is still crying is uneven bursts as her head jolts dangerously, like a bobble head, rising and falling with force against Rick’s chest. 

Putting out her hand she finds the wispy, brown curls and the curve of the baby’s head. Rick responds immediately to her prompt and slows them all down until they are stopped in the middle of a small clearing, panting for breath. She leans forward, bracing her palms on her knees and gasps for breath while Rick paces around them, soothing the still crying baby. 

She glances over at Beth first, who has taken a seat on a collapsed log, her head resting in her hands, her chest heaving – and then to Carl. The boy has already taken up watch, his lowered gun clasped in both his hands, pointed towards the damp earth at his feet. “We can’t stay here,” he says over his shoulder. “Some of them probably followed us.”

“They came outta nowhere,” Beth mutters, lifting her head, finally, her eyes wet with tears. “I didn’t see Maggie…”

Jane turns away from the young woman’s expression and straightens up, bracing her hands on her backs. She had been so focussed on Rick that she hadn’t seen anyone else except Tyreese. 

“We gotta go,” Carl’s voice is urgent and Jane looks up to find his line of sight and then the Walkers that are filtering through the trees. Not too many, but enough that they can’t take them all. They start moving again, this time at a light jog. She glances over at Rick’s hands to find that he has Judith’s head safely secured against his chest, holding her firmly to his body. 

They move steadily, picking their way over fallen trees and overgrown underbrush until they are spit out onto the rocky shore of a small creek. The rough forest terrain is enough to slow the walkers down that they have some breathing room to regroup and figure out a plan. 

“We need to circle back to the highway; the others could still be there…” Beth looks both ways up and down the creek, as though trying to orient herself. 

Jane does the same, flicking her teeth over her lower lip, unsure of which way they are supposed to go. They can’t go back the way they came, she knows that… they aren’t sure how many of the walkers followed them into the woods. Hell, it was probably a death sentence even considering going back to the highway at all considering that most of the hoard was probably still there. 

“We can’t go back,” Rick seems to have read her mind as he checks the chamber of his gun before clipping it closed, Judith balanced on his forearm. “Don’t know how many of them are back there, we can’t risk it.” 

“What are you talking about?” Beth’s voice rises and the hair on the back of Jane’s neck rises – she glances nervously around them, her fingers tightening around her machete. “We have to get back to the group!” 

Rick raises his hand in a calming gesture then slowly lowers it, shifting on the balls of his feet. “And we will. But charging back out there is not the way to do it. We’ve gotta be smart about this. We’ll have to circle back and try to get behind the horde so that we can see what we’re up against. If we intersect with them we’ll be in trouble, and we can’t have them comin’ up on us again.”

Defeated, Beth slips to her knees, her head falling forward. Carl sinks down next to her, his hand resting tentatively on her shoulder. “You don’t understand,” she whispers, raising her eyes to meet his, visibly trembling. “We need to get back now.”

Jane knows what is about to happen before Beth even reaches for the hem of her shirt and begins to pry the material upwards. As though she has developed a sixth sense for misery, she can already see the ragged, torn skin before Beth exposes it, tears slipping down her cheeks. She reaches for Rick before he can process what he is seeing and react, catches his hand before it reaches his mouth, turns him away before his eyes can widen with shock. She stands with his fingers wrapped tightly in her own, her eyes locked onto his for as long as she can bear it before she is forced to look away from the agony that stings her. 

Carl is crying with Beth on the rocky ground, his timid hands now replaced by strong, sure ones, holding her with all the strength he has to offer. 

“I need to get back to Maggie…” the young woman says, sniffling. “I just need to get back to her.”


End file.
